From the Bottom of a Bottle
by athos-aramis
Summary: The Dragonborn is B-R-O-K-E, broke.  Her house is in shambles, her name is disgraced, and there isn't even enough money left for a nice bottle of ale.  Elsa is down on her luck until she is forced into the hall of the Companions and finds Vilkas.
1. Welcome to Whiterun

**DISCLAIMER: Skyrim and the Elder Scrolls are made by Bethesda, not me.**

**AN: I had this idea and couldn't get it out of my head. I'm more concentrated on finishing another Elder Scrolls story, so please be patient with the updates!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Elsa's room slowly blurred into focus, the bright light burning at her eyes and making her head throb. Already, she was feeling her heart beat rapidly, the room spinning slightly as she rolled to her side. Reaching to the nearby table, she grabbed one of many bottles. Finding it empty, she carelessly tossed it aside, repeating the process until a full bottle was securely in her hand and reaching her lips.

Slumping back into her bed, she let the warm liquid fall down her throat, the fermented taste filling her mouth with its wonderful mix of barely and oats. It was a few more minutes before the drink settled in her stomach, making her vision clear and her head's throbbing calm. Sitting up, she blankly stared at her room, unsure of how or why most of her furniture was broken. Shrugging, she tossed the empty bottle into the corner and slowly shuffled down the hall.

"Lydia!" she yelled, her voice raspy from dehydration. "Lydia! Where are you?"

"I'm right here, my Thane," the dark-haired Nord answered from her room just down the hall. "As always."

"Lydia, why is all my things broken?" Elsa asked, pushing a loose strand of her greasy blonde hair out of her eyes.

"You said you hated their color and smashed them with that old war hammer," Lydia replied wearily, gesturing towards an ancient weapon that lay on the floor beneath its normal place on the wall.

"Oh," Elsa said, taking in the slightly destroyed look of Breezehome. "Well, let's go buy some new things after I've had a drink!"

"We can't," Lydia said coolly as the blonde Nord began shuffling towards the steps. "We have no more money."

"What do you mean we have no more money? I had thousands saved from all that shit I did," Elsa said in disbelief. "What happened to it all?"

"You spent half of it on drink and the rest, well I can only imagine, my Thane," Lydia said carefully. "Besides, you really haven't worked in five years, either."

"Why should I have to work?" Elsa replied angrily. "I killed that damned dragon, didn't I? I saved the world and put Ulfric on the throne. Isn't that enough? Why should I have to continually slave away for everyone? Don't I deserve a break?"

"Some may have agreed with you before, Elsa," the housecarl replied carefully, "But with your drinking and various public displays, people don't care to support you. In fact, I believe you are still banned from Ivarstead, Solitude, and Winterhold due to your behavior when you were last there."

Elsa looked at her housecarl in disbelief. "I'm banned?"

"Yes, they sent letters some time ago. You weren't in a state to read them, so I took the liberty. I didn't think it matter too much to you, considering that you've barely left your room for nearly four months."

"Four months? No, I've only been in there for a few days," Elsa said with a laugh, moving down the stairs in an uneven gait. Lydia followed her, frowning as the Dragonborn began shaking numerous bottles until finding a full one.

"I'm afraid it has been four months," she persisted, scowling at Whiterun's Thane as she gulped down a bottle of mead.

"Fine. Have it your way," Elsa replied, her tone impatient and hostile. "I'll go find some work, if that will keep you off my back."

"I don't know who you think will hire you in this state," the dark-haired Nord grumbled, earning her a glare from her Thane. "You haven't bathed in nearly a week and-"

"I'll speak to the Jarl," Elsa interrupted with an impatient wave, throwing open the door without a second thought.

Lydia called out after her, but Elsa didn't stop to listen to what she said. Instead, she marched up towards Dragonsreach with single-minded determination. _The Jarl will give me work,_ she thought, taking a long drink from her bottle and chucking it into the rocks that surrounded the large keep. Smiling at a gawking guard, she marched into the large receiving room and went straight to the Jarl without waiting for an invitation.

"I need work," she said expectantly to Jarl Vignar, whose wrinkled face stretched tightly in shock.

"Where is your shirt?" he exclaimed, his accent coming out thicker with his surprise.

"What?" Elsa stammered, looking down and realizing she was only wearing pants and a bra. "Oh, well I suppose it's at home," she said without missing a beat. "In fact, I need work to _buy_ a shirt!"

The Jarl motioned towards his Housecarl who rushed off and grabbed her a dress. "Put it on."

Elsa begrudgingly threw it on over her pants, not caring that only half of the fabric hung towards the floor, the rest bunching up around her waist. "There, now can I have work?"

"I don't think you are in any state to be taking on Whiterun's bounties," the Jarl said sternly. "It's only eleven in the morning and I can smell the liquor coming off you!"

"But I'm your Thane! I do jobs for you and you pay me! Isn't that how this is suppose to work?" she exclaimed. "Besides, I've only had a couple. I'm fine!"

"Elsa," the Jarl started softly, his eyes becoming sympathetic. "I know you worked hard for Whiterun during the dragon crisis. I even know that I wouldn't have this position if it wasn't for your work with the Stormcloaks. But I cannot and will not give you work until you sober up. You are disgracing yourself, your family name, and your title."

"Disgracing myself?" she asked through a hiccup, her temper rising. "No, you're disgracing yourself by denying the Dragonborn. I don't have time for this," She finished, walking off in a huff, tripping slightly down the stairs.

She could hear a few gasps and chuckles from those in Dragonsreach, making her temper grow even more. _They wouldn't be laughing if I shouted at them!_ She thought, marching out the door and down the stone steps.

"Ugh, you smell like mudcrab and skeever!" a guard called out to as she passed.

"Fuck you," she snapped at him, giving him a quick shove that caused him to fall off the steps and into the shallow water that flowed through the town.

"ELSA!" Lydia exclaimed, rushing up to the Dragonborn and grabbing her by the arm. "You can't be doing that!"

"Why not? I'm a Thane, aren't I?"

"Well, yes," Lydia started. "But this is exactly the kind of thing that got your titles taken away in Markarth and Solitude."

At the mention of Markarth, Elsa's eyes began to tear up. Lydia's face fell as she looked at her Thane. "Oh, no, Elsa, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. Don't think about it," She said as sympathetically as she could, but the damage was done.

"I need a drink," Elsa said quickly, pulling away from her Housecarl's hands and moving for the Bannered Mare with a singular thought. _Drink and forget_.

.

.

The sky was black with only a few stars dotting its inky surface when Vilkas and Farkas finally returned to Whiterun. The smaller of the two twins eyed his city with grateful delight as his sore muscles and aching feet groaned with each step. "Next time we go to clean out a mine of spiders, remind me to not wear brand new boots."

Farkas laughed at his nearly identical twin, giving him a slight shove. "And they say I'm the stupid one."

"I didn't think that the mine was as far away as it was," Vilkas replied in defense, limping slightly as his raw heels continued to rub against the back of the new boots. "Aela made it sound like it was nearby."

Farkas laughed again, pushing open the large gates to the city with ease. It always amazed Vilkas just how strong his brother was. Despite having been identical in their childhood, the minute adolescence hit Farkas had grown big and tall in a matter of months. By thirteen, his brother looked like a grown man, his body gaining definition and muscles while his voice deepened into a husky baritone.

Vilkas, on the other hand, didn't grow until he was nearly seventeen, making training with the large weapons Farkas favored nearly impossible. It had been difficult watching his brother get extra attention from Skjor and Vignar, but thankfully his quick mind had provided him ample distractions from his jealousy through studying the histories of the world and warfare. Eventually, it had earned him the privilege of being tutored by Kodlak Whiteman, which had helped develop a strong bond between the older man and the orphan. Still, he was relieved when he finally grew, almost reaching the height of his twin. He would never be as large or strong as Farkas, but at least he could hold his own against the giant of a Nord.

"Want to stop by the Mare and get a drink?" Farkas asked, as they moved up the long, sloping hill the city was built on.

"Whatever you want," Vilkas replied, wincing slightly with each step.

"You sure?" the larger twin asked, giving Vilkas a hopeful look.

"Are you meeting someone there?" he asked, able to read his brother's simple intentions easily.

Farkas smiled broadly and laughed. "I might."

"Not that girl from a week ago, I hope," Vilkas said roughly as he felt his blister rub wider.

"Nah, she didn't seem to like me much once I stopped paying for drinks," His twin laughed, truly not caring about the slight. It was another thing about his brother that amazed Vilkas. He was so easy going and tolerant of people taking advantage of his simple nature that it was a wonder that he hadn't been suckered into giving all his money to some pretty face or another. Of course, Farkas' size and heavy brow did give him a rather imposing appearance, but anyone could see after a few minutes of talking to the hulking man that he wasn't one for useless fighting.

"Who are you meeting then?" Vilkas asked as they moved toward the welcoming light coming from the tavern.

"Farkas!" came a light, happy voice from a nearby bench, answering Vilkas' question. "And hello to you, too, Vilkas," Lydia said, moving towards them with a radiant smile.

"Lydia," Vilkas said politely, giving his brother a quick warning look. "What brings you out tonight? Your Thane out and about?"

Lydia frowned slightly. "Well, yes, but Farkas told me you would be back sometime tonight and I was hoping to catch you two."

"I'm glad you did," Farkas beamed at the Housecarl, his eyes getting that dopey look that had filled them for more than one pretty face in the past.

Vilkas shook his head, knowing that his brother would do what he was going to do. "I'll go get us a table," he said, leaving the two outside to continue their greeting. _He just never learns_, he thought as he weaved his way through the thick crowd and ordered some drinks.

Moving towards an open table on the side of the room, he watched as a crowd cheered wildly at something. It only was a moment before the source of the revelry appeared. Dirty and dressed in an odd mix of armored pants and a tangle of a roughly spun dress, Elsa Fire-Storm was going head-to-head in a drinking contest with some burly looking mercenary.

He watched her for a moment with a feeling of superiority. She once was called one of the best warriors in all of Skyrim, but her body appeared more like an old woman's with little muscle tone or definition. Not for the first time, he wondered how she had ever been able to slay a dragon, her uncoordinated movements completely devoid of any trace of a warrior's control or smoothness. He frowned in annoyance as she cackled loudly, throwing back her blonde hair that was so dirty that it was beginning to clump together in thick, greasy strands.

_What a disgrace_, he thought, glancing over to the door where Lydia and Farkas seemed deep in conversation. He felt bad for the girl, having to put up with a mess like Elsa. In fact, if it hadn't been for the Housecarl's duties to her drunken mistress, Vilkas was sure that Lydia and Farkas would have made the trip to Riften, making their relationship official.

Yet, as it was, Elsa demanded all of the poor girl's attention, causing her to break off her short affair with his brother much to Farkas' dismay. It had taken months for the giant warrior to return to his happy, content self, but it was clear that he still held out hope for a future with the Housecarl. It made Vilkas very bitter towards the drunken woman that had indirectly caused his brother's unhappiness.

"What are you brooding about?" Farkas asked as he dropped into the seat across from his brother.

"Why do you keep meeting up with Lydia?" he retorted, taking a deep drink of his mead.

"Nothing wrong with two friends having a drink," his twin said with a shrug. "Besides she had a favor to ask me."

"Oh, and what was that?"

Farkas' smile faltered as he looked around. "She just needs some help with getting you-know-who back on her feet. Said she's only been leaving her room to relieve herself and get more mead."

Vilkas snorted. "Good luck with that. She's been a drunk ever since she showed back up in Whiterun. I don't think there's anything you can do that would change what she's been doing for a better part of a decade."

The massive nord shrugged, finishing his drink with a loud gulp. "I said I would try."

"You're too soft-hearted, Farkas," he said, finishing his drink and standing. "Just because you're sweet on the girl doesn't mean you need to be cleaning up her messes."

Farkas smiled easily at his brother, the sparkling look in his eyes convincing Vilkas that nothing he said would change the man's mind. Grimacing slightly as they moved towards the door, he just hoped that Farkas wouldn't be an idiot and put himself in a position where he would only get hurt.


	2. Meet the New Recruit

**Chapter 2**

"Get up!" an angry voice called, pushing its way into her heavy mind. "Get up now!"

"What?" Elsa croaked, her throat feeling raw and dry while her eyes only just began to blink away the haze of sleep.

"I said get up! You're going to be late!" Lydia pressed, her voice rising with trepidation as she started grabbing things around the room.

"Late?" Elsa asked slowly, rising up in the bed on shaky arms. "Late for what?"

Lydia turned, her mouth open to answer until is fell into an angry glare "Don't you _dare_ drink that," she hissed as Elsa brought a fresh bottle to her lips.

Elsa returned the gaze, rolling her eyes at the threat as she pushed the cool glass bottle to her lips and felt the strong burn of the liquid down her throat.

"That's _IT!_" Lydia yelled, launching herself towards her Thane. "Give me that, right now!"

"ARGH! GET OFF LYDIA!" she yelled, sloshing as much of the liquid into her mouth as down the simple dress she still wore over her armored pants.

"NO!" the Housecarl screamed, pulling the empty bottle from her Thane's hands. "That's _enough!_" she seethed, throwing it into the corner with the rest of the Elsa's weekly consumption.

"I'm your _Thane_!" Elsa stammered, looking at Lydia in complete disbelief. "And you hit me!"

"I am done putting up with your drinking," Lydia spat. "This ends. I've gotten you a job and you are already late. Now get up, you worthless drunk."

"Worthless?" the washed-up Dragonborn said, her mind working slowly as it screamed for a drink. "Worthless. Really?"

"Oh, I am more than serious, Elsa," Lydia hissed, roughly shoving some clothes into a bag. "This ends today."

"But Lydia, where am I going? I don't know anything about some job!" Elsa exclaimed, her eyes searching for one of the full bottles she knew she had hidden in the room. Spying on lying under some clothes by a chair, she causally shuffled her way towards it and waited for the Housecarl to turn her back. Grabbing the treasure up greedily, she quickly opened it and drained the contents while Lydia continued to grumble about _something._

"What are you saying? I can't even hear you," Elsa called out, her voice gaining the air of a teenage girl.

"I said," she started slowly, turning to face the infuriating woman she was forced to work for. "That you are _not_ ruining my life anymore. You are going to go work and figure your life out."

"Oh, _I'm going to go work and figure my life out,_" Elsa mocked, standing on shivering legs.

"Put this on. Now!" she said sternly, reading the defiant look in her Thane's eyes.

_What in Oblivion did I do?_ Elsa thought bitterly as she grabbed the set of leather armor and began pulling it on. She wanted to argue with her, but she felt the familiar shaking of her hands that told her another drink was needed should she wish to avoid other, more unpleasant things. _Do what she says and get a drink_, she told herself as she struggled getting dressed.

"-And you've completely destroyed the house!" Lydia said, her continued tirade finally breaking through Elsa's stubborn ears.

"Fine, I'm ready. Will you shut-up already?" she spat at the dark haired Nord, raising her arms to show that she was properly dressed. "Just take me to this job."

Lydia gave her an appraising look and frowned. "You need a bath."

"Ugh, Lydia, you are really getting on my last nerve," Elsa shouted, storming from the room and grabbing a bottle off a table. She quickly opened it and drank the majority of the contents before the Housecarl was able to react.

"You really can't stay sober for just one morning?"

Elsa gave her an angry glare. "No I can't. If this isn't acceptable for this job of yours, then fuck it."

The poor Nord looked at her mistress, her mouth twitching as she held back whatever remark that was itching to be said. Elsa, though, didn't notice as she moved towards the door. _Who does she think she is?_ She grumbled to herself. _I'm the Dragonborn! Who is she to tell me what to do?_

"Come on, let's go," Lydia said, roughly pushing past her mistress and out the door.

"Um, excuse me?" Elsa said, stumbling after her Housecarl, the bright light of midday burning at her light blue eyes.

"Hurry up!"

_Really? What's wrong with her?_ she thought sourly as she found her footing and followed Lydia up the hill.

At first, Elsa was convinced that the job was going to be for one of the small stall vendors, but her Housecarl did not stop her fast walk when they neared them. Then, she was certain it would be working for the Battle-Borns, doing some sort of silly task relating to their feud. Yet, Lydia walked by. Finally, it seemed that the Jarl had changed his mind, the stone steps to Dragonsreach looming in front of her, but Lydia slowed and turned away from the familiar steps. Instead, she moved towards a sturdy longhouse, set off from the city somewhat by a flight of stairs and an ancient stone wall.

"You have to be kidding me," Elsa muttered as Lydia began to ascend the steps to Jorrvaskr, home of the Companions. "You can't be serious, Lydia," She said louder as the woman pulled open the large, wooden doors of the ancient structure. Elsa had never taken much of an opportunity to look at it, but she was not impressed by the worn wood and high ceilings. Magnificent buildings were made of stone, not wood.

"I am very serious," Lydia snapped as the door thudded shut behind them, drawing the few eyes of the warriors that lounged around a large table.

"I don't want to work here," Elsa whispered to her servant, feeling the unwelcoming stares heavily on her back. "More importantly, they don't want me here."

"It's all been worked out," Lydia said again, her eyes falling on a thick, burly Nord that Elsa had seen around from time to time. He had a thick head of dark hair that hung to his shoulders and icy eyes that seemed to burst out from the dark war paint smudge carelessly on his face. His masculinity was only increased by a broad nose leading to thick lips and a strong, square jaw. "Farkas, I'm handing her over to you."

The large Nord's eyes sparkled as he looked at Lydia, his brutish features softening. "Alright. Kodlak has been expecting her."

"Wait a minute," Elsa said, her words coming out thick and slow. "I never agreed to any of this. I'm not about to work for these _people,_" She finished making a disgusted face a Dunmer man and Imperial woman who were whispering animatedly amongst themselves. She immediately disliked them and their quick glances, silently cursing them to Oblivion.

"That's too bad," Lydia said roughly. "I've already commissioned the locks to be changed on Breezehome. You are _not_ welcomed back until you straighten up and start acting like the bloody Dragonborn!"

"_What?_" she bellowed, a tense silence falling over the hall as the unknown warriors stopped in their whispers and stared. "HOW DARE YOU!"

"No!" Lydia yelled back. "How dare _you_! I have slaved away for you for years without a thank you or a kind word. I have cleaned up your messes, cooked your food, I've even have given you sponge baths when you refuse to get out of bed. I have put up with your wallowing in self-pity and drinking for too long and I have _had it_! You are a complete disgrace to your name, your titles, and most of all, to Ar-"

"YOU BITCH!" Elsa shouted, cutting Lydia off as she pounced on her Housecarl. She felt a hot rage fill her as she brought her fists down on the unsuspecting woman, feeling her smooth skin give way to the hard blows. The fight only lasted for a few seconds, a large, round arm wrapping itself around her and pulling her away from her target.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, thrashing wildly as Farkas held her off the ground. "_Let go_!"

"Farkas, put her down," Lydia said, pushing herself off the ground. The large Nord gave her a questioning look but did as she said.

"You are not coming back to Breezehome until you _wake up_ and pull yourself together," the Housecarl hissed, wiping the blood that was dripping from her nose.

"Fine, I'll just go to one of my other houses," Elsa said, her cheeks still burning hot and her eyes brimming with tears. "If you don't want me, I'll leave!"

The cold laughter that rang out from the Nord woman's mouth calmed the fire that was coursing through Elsa's veins with how out of place it was coming from the kind woman that cared for her. She took a step back from her friend, unsure of how to react to her.

"Leave to where?" Lydia laughed spitefully. "To Solitude where you'll be arrested on sight? Or is it Winterhold where the mages will demand that you be turned away from the inn? Or even Windhelm where you owe more gold than your house is even worth? Tell me, Elsa, where will you go?"

The Dragonborn stared at her Housecarl emotionlessly, at a loss for words. She hardly remembered the incident with the mages or that bizarre night at court. She most certainly didn't remember how much gold she had spent at the various taverns around Skyrim to have a clear account of who she owed what. Lydia was the one that dealt with that.

"You have nowhere to go but here," Lydia said darkly, her voice harsh and commanding. "Do the work, clean yourself up, otherwise start looking for a cave the spend the rest of your days in."

Elsa looked at her friend in disbelief, a sense of betrayal and fury flushing her skin further. A sudden desire to hurt the woman filled her as the treachery settled like poison in her stomach. "I wish it had been you with me at Blind Cliff Cave," She hissed, turning from the stunned look that splashed across the woman's face. "Take me to this Kojack or whoever he is." She said to Farkas, ignoring the soft sniffling noises that were coming from Lydia.

Farkas took a moment to process what was said, his face dropping as Lydia ran from the hall. Looking down at the fuming Dragonborn, his eyes held a resentment that somehow felt out of place to her despite his intimidating features. "Alright," He mumbled, walking heavily towards a set of stairs.

Elsa was glad that the Nord didn't try to speak to her as he moved down the basement hall, its cool stone only interrupted by scattered shelves and doors. She blinked back a few tears that threatened to slip from her bloodshot eyes, trying to focus on the curving ceiling lined with thick wooden beams or strange artifacts that gleamed from inside glass cases. In the distance she heard the hushed tones of talking, the masculine voices getting louder with each step.

Her guide hesitated by a large double door that arched up towards the ceiling, unsure whether to enter or not. Looking around, she caught her reflection in one of many silver plates that stood upright in a nearby shelf. She was shocked by how red the whites of her eyes were, making the light blue of her eyes appear raw and angry. Her skin was dull and pasty under a layer of dirt, the golden tan she had acquired during her years of traveling completely gone. Bringing her hand up, she roughly rubbed at her cheeks, turning the skin under her light dusting of freckles bright red.

Farkas, turned and gave her a long look, before pulling open the heavy doors with a look of ease. Immediately, the hum of voices became clear as her towering guide led her into what appeared to be a study of some sort.

"But I still hear the call of the blood," came a heavily accented nordic voice from a back room, Elsa peeking around the Nord's large body to see who was speaking. She was shocked as she stared at a near double of Farkas, though he was smaller, both in his shoulders and in height. His face, too, had more narrow angles and sharp lines than the sloping geometric features of Lydia's friend. Yet, what struck her the most was the sharp look in his bright, silver-grey eyes that showed much more depth than the larger Nord's dull look. As the smaller warrior looked at her, she couldn't shake the unsettled feeling that filled her. It was like staring into the face of a hungry beast that was deciding whether she was potential prey. Stepping back behind the protective barrier Farkas gave her, she felt a shudder run through her.

"We will speak of it further," said the elderly man that sat across from the dark-haired Nord. His face, though covered in deep lines and a thick, white beard, seemed to radiate life as he glanced at her. His curious eyes rested on soft, puffy bags of skin that slopped down onto his cheeks. "But later, a stranger enters our hall."

For a moment, no one said anything, the air becoming thick and tense. The elderly man stared questioningly at Elsa, his eyes calculating and precise. Despite being somewhat hidden by the giant warrior's body, she could feel the burn of the younger man's sharp eyes, unnerving her even further.

"So this is she?" the old man said to Farkas, his face blank of any judgment he may have her during his brief appraisal.

"Yes. She put up a right fight coming here," The giant Nord replied.

"That explains the noises we heard," the old man said gently. "Thank you, Farkas. You may go."

"Kodlak," the warrior said with a nod before marching back down the hall towards the stairs. Elsa was almost sad to see him go as both sets of eyes now fully focused in on her.

"So you have come to join the Companions?" the old man, referred to as Kodlak, said thoughtfully, his face remaining still as a painting.

"Do I have a choice?" she spat at the man, her head beginning to pound slightly as her morning drinks wore off.

"Everyone here has a choice." he replied gently. "Lydia and Farkas only asked that I look at you as a favor. You can go anytime you wish."

_To where?_ She thought, Lydia's words stinging her still. "If there's work and gold, I'll stay." she said strongly, her wounded pride making her voice sound more confident than she felt.

"Let me look at you now," he said, motioning for her to move forward into the light. Elsa complied, even though she hated the idea of anyone sizing her up.

"Master, you're not truly considering accepting _her?_" the near double of Farkas gasped.

"Fuck you!" Elsa spat at the man, her eyes narrowing with dislike. "Who are _you_ to talk to _me_?"

The old man laughed, his face wrinkling with his numerous years. "She certainly has a certain strength of spirit!"

"She's a drunk, master!" the younger man said in bewilderment.

Elsa glared at the man as the old warrior continued to laugh. "I am nobody's master, Vilkas," he started, his voice calming to its serious tone. "And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts."

"A fire? She only has ale and mead in her veins!" Vilkas continued to protest, his brow wrinkling deeply.

The old man gave him a stern look, causing his eyes to drop to the ground. "Apologies, Kodlak, but perhaps this isn't the time to be accepting new recruits. Besides, with everything I've heard about her…"

"Vilkas, reputation isn't what matters. It's the heart."

"And the arm," he mumbled, crossing his arms across his sturdy chest.

"From everything Lydia told me, she has both."

"What did Lydia tell you?" Elsa interrupted, the color draining from her face at the thought of what the Housecarl could have said to the old man.

"Enough to give me some judgment of your character," Kodlak said easily, his eyes softening as he looked at her. "How are you in battle?"

"I'm still alive," she said with a shrug, doing her best to keep her temper in check despite the scowl the young man was giving her.

"Yes, you are," Kodlak said with a small smile. "Yet, we must get a handle for you skill. This is Vilkas. He will test your arm."

"What?" both Elsa and Vilkas said together. She didn't know or care why this _Vilkas_ seemed to hate her, but she did feel the sting of disrespect at the old man's assumption that she needed to be tested.

"I'm the Dragonborn! Do you _really _think that I can't manage my way around a sword?" she fumed, her voice quivering as she held back the curses she wanted to through at him.

"Every warrior is tested, famous or not," Kodlak replied sternly. "Vilkas, show her to the yard and see what she can do."

"Aye," he answered sullenly, giving Elsa a nasty look.

_Stupid Lydia,_ she thought as she followed the man, _I should be at home in my bed_. It didn't help matters that her head was beginning to pound and she could feel the cold sweat of withdrawal begin to cover her skin. As they passed by a table, she quickly snatched up a bottle hoping to stave off the worse of the symptoms.

"I hope you know how to handle yourself, _new blood,_" Vilkas sneered as they entered the ground.

Elsa snorted, following him down the steps more focused on the bottle in her hands than the irritated Nord with a sword.

"Oh, for the love of Talos, you _have_ to be joking!" he said after finally turning to see nursing the bottle happily. "Will you put that down?"

"I only need one hand for a sword," she shot back at him. "I don't even see why you're bothering to fight me. You know I'm going to win."

"Kodlak said for me to have a look at you," he said, his expression darkening. "So let's do this," He finished, raising his sword and coming at her.

Elsa was not prepared for his quick charge, barely managing to grip her sword and bring it up in a weak block, her mind more focused on her drink than the fight.

"Is that the best you've got?" Vilkas jeered, swinging his sword out to the side in a furious slash that cut into her armor before he pulled back. Elsa gave him a look of disbelief, the blow causing her to stumble to the side, her sword hanging uselessly from her hand. She felt her anger rising as he gave her a sickly smile and came at her again. Holding tightly onto her bottle, she attempted to block his sweeping attack, but her weak, shaking arm was unable support the force of his long, steel blade, causing her sword to drop from her hand.

"Pick it up!" he yelled at her, his eyes narrowing with a look of disgust.

Elsa did as he said, draining her bottle and throwing it against the stone wall. With both hands free, she felt a little more prepared as he spun at her, his sword flashing with blinding light as he brought it down on her shoulder, the steel biting through her thin, leather armor and cutting shallowly on her skin. Rage filled her with the stinging cut, her heart beating wildly as she began to desire his blood. _If he wants a fight, _she thought darkly as the days frustrations rolled in her stomach, _He'll have one! _Charging forward, she let her instincts take control, her mind still to hazy to do anything fancy.

Yet, Vilkas still had the upper hand. His feet were steady and his arm steady, unlike Elsa's that continued to shake as her body demanded her deadly drink. His eyes seemed to pick up on her weaknesses, his grin growing into an irritating smirk as easily stepped to the side of her wild attack.

"You lack discipline and skill, _Dragonborn,_" he laughed, bringing his sword up and sharply hitting her on the back with the broadside. Elsa screamed in anger, turning sharply and glaring at him as he turned to the small crowd that had gathered to watch the fight. "Have enough, _new blood?_" he asked as he brought his great sword crashing against her blade, the vibrations numbing her hands so that she dropped her blade yet again.

Elsa clenched her teeth, her anger giving her added energy. "You're no dragon," she hissed, picking up her sword and bringing it diagonally in a quick upswing. Vilkas again stepped easily out of the way, but his foot caught on a loose stone, causing him to flatter slightly. Taking advantage of his momentary imbalance, she moved forward and slashed her sword down at him, forcing him to block awkwardly with his long blade that was better suited for enemies at a comfortable distance, not for one that had somehow moved in next to him. Elsa shot him a dirty look as he quickly attempted to recalculate his position. _Fucker_, she thought as she lifted her knee and brought it soundly against the weak spot in his armor by his groin.

The effect was immediate. Vilkas' eyes widened and then squeezed shut as his face blanked of everything but pain. His sword clattered to the ground as his body crumpled, his hands protectively covering his manly region.

"Have enough?" she spat at him, moving away from where he lay moaning and grabbing a bottle of mead from a nearby table. A small crowd had formed at some point during their little battle, but none cheered her as they began whispering about her dirty tactics. She didn't care, though, as she slumped down on the ground by the longhouse. All that mattered is she had beaten the nasty Nord and she had a drink. For the moment, she was content.


	3. Swords, Ale, and Blood

**Chapter3**

Vilkas forced his eyes open despite the intense pain that still throbbed between his legs. _That bitch!_ He thought furiously as his eyes caught her sitting on the ground, drinking. Slowly, he pulled himself from the ground, trying to ignore the stares from those that sat outside Jorrvaskr to watch the fight. Feeling a primitive rage run through him over the pain and embarrassment, he stalked over towards the disgustingly dirty, blonde Nord, his mind set on teaching her a lesson. He didn't even notice his brother get up and move towards him until Farkas was standing directly in front of him, his massive arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Out of my way, Farkas," he hissed as he tried to move around his brother's hulking form.

"No, Vilkas," he said, his voice hard but his eyes pleading. "Let it go."

"Let it go?" he started, his mouth dropping at the insane request. "LET IT GO! Did you see what that filthy whore did to me!"

"Vilkas, please. For me," Farkas pressed, his hands coming to rest on Vilkas' smaller shoulders.

Looking into his brother's eyes, he felt the angry fire that burned in him slowly sputter out. Sighing heavily, he wrinkled his mouth into an unhappy snarl and nodded. "Fine. For you."

Farkas smiled, his heavy face lightening with his hopeful happiness. It frustrated Vilkas that his brother was so blind to the fact that their newest recruit would ultimately fail and Lydia would be honor bound to care for her. There would be no happy ending for Farkas and the Housecarl and it was all because of _Elsa Fire-Storm._

Vilkas watched his brother moved back to where many of his shield-siblings sat murmuring about the fight, an embarrassed flush crept up his neck and reddened his stubble-filled cheeks. Looking back at the worthless drunk, he realized that she had dozed off, the bottle she had been drinking hanging precariously in her hand. Anger filled him again, but instead of the hot, instinctive rage from moments ago, it was cold and calculated fury that rose in him. A vindictive smile crossed his lips as he vowed to make the Dragonborn's life worse than Oblivion. If she lasted the week when he was done, he would be greatly surprise.

"Better for Farkas to come to terms with reality sooner rather than later," he muttered to himself after glancing over at his oblivious brother. Just as removing an arrow was best done quickly and with little hesitation, destroying false hopes led to less disappointment the sooner it was done.

Moving over to the drunken Nord, he gave her a quick look of disgust before roughly kicking her with his steel boot.

"Goff Lydia," she mumbled, barely rousing. Her unresponsiveness fueled the growing anger in him, his boot finding her ribs rather than her leg this time in a sharp kick.

"What the FUCK!" Elsa shouted, bolting upright and immediately doubling over in pain. Vilkas smiled as she tenderly touched her now bruised, if not broken, ribs.

"Get up, whelp," he said, smiling down at her as she processed what was going on.

"Fuck you!" she spat back as her eyes found the bottle she dropped, the liquid seeping into the dry ground.

"I don't fuck dirty whores like you," he said nastily, tapping her roughly with his boot again. "Now get up!"

He watched happily as her face morphed into anger, her light blue eyes glaring at him. Her mouth moved a few times, as if she was about to speak, but surprisingly she held her tongue and stood.

"Good. Now you listen to me, whelp, and listen good. You are a _nobody_ here. You are _less_ than a nobody. You will do what I say, when I say it. If you fail, which you will, I will throw your sorry excuse for a warrior out on the street without a second thought. Am I clear, whelp?" he hissed, moving his face only inches from hers.

She glared up at him through her bloodshot eyes, the bright red making the blue spark more intensely. "Perfectly," she snapped, not backing down from his challenge.

"Good. Now take my sword to Eorlund to have it sharpened and bring it back to me without a mark. It's worth more than you are, _Dragonborn,_" he finished, spitting out her title like a poisonous mushroom.

Elsa held out her hand and took the sword without a word, her thin-lipped glare and tense steps towards the Skyforge telling him more than any insult she threw at him would. She hated him as much as he hated her and she was just barely able to control herself. _She'll crack before the day is done,_ he thought smugly to himself as he moved to where his companions sat.

"Where's the new blood going with your sword?" Farkas asked, his simple words hiding a deeper question that only his twin could read.

_Don't make me feel guilt, Farkas_, _I'm doing this for you, _he thought as he sat stiffly on one of the low benches. "To get it sharpened."

Aela laughed over her turkey leg, the sound deep and clear. "That is a new low, even for you Vilkas."

"I can't trust her with anything else, yet," he replied with a little smile after catching Aela's strange, golden eyes. "Let me handle giving her contracts for awhile. Wouldn't want her dirtying our good name."

Aela laughed again, helping Vilkas to ignore Farkas' frown. Ripping into a juicy turkey leg, he let himself have the smug satisfaction that the Dragonborn would no sooner be a Companion than he would be a vampire.

.

.

Elsa took her sweet time getting to the Skyforge. It was partially due to her side throbbing with each step, experience telling her that a few of her ribs were definitely bruised and would take a few weeks before any sort of motion wouldn't bother them. Yet, her slow pace was more a deliberate act of defiance as she wanted to make Vilkas wait for her before he would be able to go do whatever it was he did. It was the most immediate form of punishment she could give to the horrible Nord for kicking her and thinking that he was better than her, although, in her mind, he deserved much more.

"Bastard," she muttered as she approached Eorlund Gray-Mane, her mind returning to the Companion's thin-lipped grin and cold eyes as he looked down at her.

"What was that?" the old blacksmith said, turning from his forge and giving Elsa a long, hard stare.

"Nothing," she said, flopping down on the dirty stone that surrounded the red-hot coals of the forge, the heat and the smells unique to a smithy comforting her with their familiarity. "Just talking to myself."

The old man nodded and turned back to his work, his thick arms bulging with contraction as he brought his hammer down on a fiery red blade. "What brings you here, Dragonborn?" he yelled over his hammering. "You haven't come to me in nearly a decade, when I made that shield for you."

Elsa felt a pang of sadness go through her as she remembered the beautiful shield Eorlund had crafted her. It was meant be a gift, but fate had prevented her from ever being able to give it.

"Whatever happened to that shield? I don't see you carrying it. It couldn't have broken," the blacksmith said, dunking the hot metal into water with a loud hiss.

"It's in the Hall of the Dead in Markarth," she managed to push out, getting a quick look from Eorlund that was thankfully not followed by questions or words of sympathy.

"So what brings you here today?" he said instead, pulling the blade out of the water and setting it back into the forge. "Are you in the need of new steel?"

"No," she said darkly. "Vilkas sent me with his sword."

Eorlund took the blade that she thrust at him, a look of surprise covering his wrinkled face. "So you are a newcomer to the Companions, then?" he asked, moving slowly to his grindstone with the masterfully crafted sword.

"More like the errand-girl," she said bitterly, spitting into the forge and watching dully as the coal flickered black before becoming red again.

"Oh, don't worry too much about it," Eorlund said over his smooth movements on the fine blade. "It's their way to treat the whelps like this."

"I don't think it's just because I'm new," she said, standing stiffly as Eorlund rose and handed her the sword.

"That might be," he said easily, "But it's not my place to say what is and what isn't. That's Companion business, not mine. It's just nice to see you someplace besides the Bannered Mare," He finished with a smile.

Elsa tried to smile back, but Eorlund just reminded her of things she had desperately fought to ignore. He had made more than one weapon for her in her late teenage years as she fought against both dragons and the Empire. He had even advanced the skills she had gained in her youth as a blacksmith's daughter, opening her eyes to techniques that she never dreamed were possible. She respected the old man because of this and acknowledged the mastery of his weapons and armor. Only his armor was strong enough to stop the razor sharp teeth of a dragon and his swords would cut scales like butter. It was this that helped her form a unique trust for the man as they developed the strong bond between a warrior and a smith. Yet, as she stood before him embarrassed and disgraced, she had trouble meeting his smile without bitterness biting the back of her throat.

"I'll see you around, Eorlund," she said stiffly, shuffling her way back down the slopping path.

"Just remember, in the Companions there are no masters," he called down to her. "Don't feel you have to blindly do what they say."

_Unless you have a bitch for a Housecarl that refuses to let you back into your own home,_ she thought darkly as moved quickly past Jorrvaskr and towards her favorite tavern. _Then you have to do whatever the bastards say._

Pushing open the door, she was glad to see the place was nearly empty despite the evening hour. "Give me an ale, Hulda," She said, resting Vilkas' sword against the wall as she gingerly sat on one of the high stools.

"Not tonight, Elsa," the barkeep said sternly. "You still owe me gold for the last three times."

"Fine," she said, patting at her pockets in search of some gold. Finding none, she looked herself over. She was wearing old leather armor that was probably twelve or thirteen years old. Where Lydia had found it, she couldn't even guess.

_Not a huge loss_, she thought to herself as she tugged off her boots and her bracers and placed them on the counter. "How much can I get for these?"

Hulda gave her a disgusted look as she looked the items over. "I would say the boots would cover your debt and the bracers would give you about six drinks."

"Then bring me six ales," Elsa replied, ignoring Hulda as she put the armor away, muttering something about _stupid drunk_.

"No messes or fights tonight," the barkeep said, putting all six drinks in front of the Dragonborn. "And bathe before you come in here again." She finished before stalking off.

"Bitch," Elsa muttered as she started in on her drink. Immediately she felt some of her tension leave her, a relieved sigh escaping her lips. She had only drank a fraction of what she normally did that day, making her body greedily demand the alcohol as quickly as she could drink it. Her body hadn't hurt so bad in years, the combination of minor withdrawal and now injured ribs making her wish she had more than six drinks. Over the next two hours, Elsa sat in silence moving only her hand and mouth as she filled her empty stomach with the delicious poison. Her mind fogged over all of her darker thoughts that her trip to Eorlund had conjured up, while making her anger at Vilkas become more vivid. By her sixth drink, Elsa was fuming about the Nord's audacity at using _her_, the Dragonborn, as an errand girl.

"You know what his problem is, Hulda?" she said to the weary barkeep. "He probably doesn't have a lot happening down south, if you catch my drift."

Hulda gave her a sour look, pursing her lips as she wiped glasses. Elsa took this as an invitation to go on with her theory and continued with relish. "Why else would he give me so much attitude? He has to prove he's a man by trying to control me!"

"Maybe he gives you attitude because you're a drunk," the barkeep snapped, setting the glass down roughly.

"No, that's not it," Elsa said with a laugh. "You're funny tonight, Huldy!"

"Don't call me Huldy, Elsa," the barkeep said. "You've finished your drinks, why don't you head home now?"

"Can't I get one on the house, for old times sake?" Elsa asked, giving Hulda her best pathetic look she could muster in her light intoxication.

"Fine, one," the sour Nord replied, grabbing and ale and thrusting it towards her. "You drink that on your way home. I have a bar to clean."

"Not a problem, Huldy!" Elsa said happily, holding her drink carefully while she picked up Vilkas' sword. "Time to give little Vilkas his great big sword back!" she finished in a childish voice, a mischievous smile pushing up her cheeks.

Hulda didn't say anything, grabbing her broom and pointing towards the door. Elsa followed the direction and quickly stumbled her way back to Jorrvaskr.

"Make me run your errands, will you?" she mumbled as she sipped at her bottle, her toes catching on the stone steps towards the longhouse. "Oh, I'll do them alright!" she said, laughing to herself and tossing her empty bottle away before stumbling into the warm hall of the Companions.

Looking around, she only saw the Dunmer, an middle-aged Nord, and Farkas. Her mind set on her goal, she stomped straight towards the dark-haired Nord without a thought for the looks the other two warriors gave her. "Farkas," she started slowly. "Where's your brother. I have his sword."

The large Nord gave her a disappointed look that reminded her of a puppy when it didn't get table scraps. "Maybe you should wait until the morning when you're not so…" he trailed off, unable to think of a nice word.

"Drunk," said the Dunmer in disgust. "You're worse than Torvar!"

Elsa didn't know who Torvar was, nor did she care. All she wanted to do was finish her job and return to Vilkas his sword. "Farkas, I'm just trying to do my job. Isn't that what Lydia wanted me to do?" she said in a garbled, but sweet voice.

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt putting it outside his door," he replied hesitantly. "His room is downstairs on the left. Just don't wake him."

"I won't," she said with a wicked grin, stumbling away before anyone could say anything else.

Walking down the wide hall, Elsa quietly made her way into the only doorway on the left. Two simple wooden doors without locks sat on either side of the small hallway, just waiting to be opened. She first tried the one on the left and was surprised to find a bar taking up the better part of the room. Walking over, she was disappointed to find it empty of any drinks and left the room in disgust.

The next door was far more satisfying. Vilkas clearly was a studious man as his room was filled with alchemy supplies and books. At one time in her life she would have loved a room like this, her quick mind adoring the complex art of mixing ingredients and experimenting new concoctions. Now, though, her mind only wanted two things; Ale and, more recently, the most revenge she could take on Vilkas without losing a place to sleep.

_What a bastard_, she thought as her eyes moved off the room's decorations and to the happily sleeping man. She was glad to see he was a back sleeper, his torso bare while his legs were only covered with thin linen pants. She felt a small pang of disappointment as she noticed that he was not as small as she assumed he would be, wrecking her hypothesis on why he was so nasty.

_It doesn't matter,_ she told herself as she crept up to his bed. His legs were spread slightly, creating a small, open space between his groin and the soft flesh of his thighs. Smiling wildly, Elsa lifted his sword up so it hovered over the delicate area. Squeezing one eye shut, she aimed for the little open space and thrust the sword down, throwing all of her weight into it.

Vilkas shot up immediately at the jolt of the bed as the sword's tip became buried in the wood. His eyes were wide as he stared at the gleaming blade that had just barely missed his manhood by mere millimeters. Elsa watched in satisfaction as he breathed deeply, his eyes shutting for a moment as he took in the situation, only to open again with more anger and hatred than she had even seen earlier that day.

"You _bitch,_" he hissed, the veins in his neck pushing out on the scarlet colored skin. "I'm going to KILL YOU!" he finished, launching himself from the bed and landing on top of her.

They hit the floor hard, sending a bookshelf crashing to the floor and breaking several glass jars. Elsa felt his fist make contact with her face, the pain dulled by the liquor that flowed through her veins. In fact, she found the whole situation _funny_. She began to laugh wildly as they fought, Vilkas using fists while Elsa using her teeth and nails, the alcohol and anger helping her to ignore the shooting pain from her ribs and throw wild, unpredictable swings.

From somewhere around them the noise of people gathering could be heard. A deep feminine voice began yelling into the already chaotic ruckus and the sound of things being moved were just barely registering to her as she wildly propelled her body, catching Vilkas at a strange angle that caused him to flip onto his back. His hands grabbed onto her hair, pulling her head down violently towards his chest as he attempted to regain the dominant position. Elsa found his neck and bit down hard, the taste of iron meeting her broken lips. Vilkas cried out, his hand swinging towards her face and making contact with her ear, but she didn't let go. It wasn't until familiar thick arms scooped her up around the waist and yanked her up that she released the Nord, a wild grin on her face.

"WHAT is going on here?" the unfamiliar woman yelled, her auburn hair disheveled and a few red marks lining her arms where either Elsa or Vilkas had accidentally made contact.

"She tried to kill me!" Vilkas breathed out heavily. Elsa was pleased to see that his right eye appeared to be swelling somewhat while his arms held some bright red marks from where her nails had found him. She watched smugly as he lifted his hand to his neck and felt the blood that trickled from the oval wound she had created.

"She did what?" the woman asked, looking between Elsa and Vilkas in disbelief, her yellowish eyes looking strangely surreal on her creamy skin that was smudged with red war paint.

"I said that she tried to _kill me_!" he shouted, flinging his hand towards the bed where the sword still sat stuck.

"I did _not_ try to kill you!" Elsa said calmly, the world spinning somewhat while her ears rang from the last of the Nord's punches. "I was just returning your sword that you had me go get sharpened."

"By stabbing it into my bed while I slept!" he fumed, his face turning a brilliant reddish hue that put a ruby to shame.

Elsa shrugged, a hiccup escaping her lips. "I didn't hit you."

"And she's drunk!" Vilkas shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. "Does anybody else see what's wrong with this? She should be forced to leave. NOW."

"Vilkas, that's enough," Came a deep rumble from the hallway, causing the small, whispering crowd to fall silent.

"Kodlak," he said in a relieved tone. "Please tell me you are here to make her leave!"

"Calm your fire, Vilkas. No true harm has been done."

"Kodlak, you must see that-" Vilkas started, stopping as the old warrior entered the room and gave him a stern look.

"I wish to speak to our newest warrior. Alone," he said, causing the residents of Jorrvaskr to file out of the room without a word. Vilkas lingered, his left eye glaring at her while his right swiftly swelled shut. She smiled at him, the cuts in her lips from his punches bleeding slightly into her mouth.

"You too, Vilkas," Kodlak said gently, the Nord limping slightly out into the hall. The Harbinger carefully shut the door behind Vilkas and sighed. "You are not making this easy, girl. Do you know what will happen if I decided that you are not fit to be a member of the Companions?"

"I'll go home," she said with a shrug. "Lydia can't be mad at me forever."

"There is more at play here than just your Housecarl," he said heavily, reaching down and carefully picking up a chair. Elsa watched as he carefully sat down, his arms shaking as he did so. She recognized it immediately as the early stages of the Rot. Her grandfather had contracted the disease early in her childhood and died only after a few years of increasing weakness and loss of coordination and balance. It was a horrible death for anyone, especially a warrior. For a moment, she felt some pity for the old man.

"Elsa," Kodlak started again, his calm slate eyes forcing her to pay attention to him. "Did you know that Vignar Gray-Mane use to be a Companion? He was one of our fiercest warriors, mentoring most of the fighters that now make up our governing body, the Circle. In fact, he even mentored Farkas for most of his childhood and views the boy as family.

"Does this matter?" Elsa said impatiently, the ringing in her ears waxing and waning like a rolling tide around her head.

"It does," Kodlak said sternly. "He knows he has you to thank for becoming Jarl in Balgruuf's place after the Stormcloaks took Whiterun. He also is very fond of your Lydia and wants to see her and Farkas happy."

"What do you mean he wants to see Lydia and Farkas happy?" she said quickly. "Lydia isn't involved with anyone, let alone _Farkas_."

The old warrior sighed, his face showing his weariness. "Whether you choose to be aware of the world around you or not, girl, it's there. The fact of the matter is that you are here not only because Lydia had Farkas asked me to find you work, but because Jarl Vignar wished to see you better for your sake and for theirs. He came to me quite unexpectedly after you had asked him for work, apparently barely dressed, hoping that we could help drive the poison from you."

"So Lydia, Farkas, _and _the Jarl are responsible for me being kicked out of my house?" Elsa said, her anger rising. "After all I've done for Whiterun? After all I've done for Skyrim?"

"Yes," Kodlak said. "And if you don't improve, Elsa, while living under my roof he will be forced to strip you of your title as Thane and take back your home to pay off your debts. This is your last chance and you are only getting it because _you are_ the Dragonborn."

"He can't do that!" she said quickly, her world spinning for reasons other than drink and the fight. "Where would I go?"

"If it reaches that point, it won't be anyone's concern but yours," Kodlak said sternly. "I'm going to be putting Vilkas in charge of giving you work until you prove that you are ready to take your test and become a Companion."

"Vilkas! Why him? Why not Farkas or that woman with the war paint down her face."

"Farkas is too gentle," Kodlak explained. "And Aela is needed to help train the other young warriors of our hall. Besides, I feel Vilkas will be able to provide you with the work you need," he finished with a meaningful smile. "Humility is a trait that everyone needs to work on, girl, especially you."

Elsa stared at the old man in disbelief, unable to process everything that he had told her. As he rose stiffly from his chair, he gave her a hard look, his old eyes briefly showing the warrior he had once been. "I will be watching you carefully, Elsa. Do not force me to do what I must should you fail."

She watched him leave, her mind spinning. _This has to be a joke_, she told herself. _This is just a bad joke. Tomorrow, Lydia will come get me and bring me home and everything will go back to normal._ Yet, deep down she knew it wasn't a joke. She would be homeless, penniless, and friendless should Kodlak give the Jarl a negative report. She would be completely alone in the large, northern province with nothing and no one to turn to. Feeling the familiar ache that had been haunting her for nearly eleven years, she ran from the room and up the stairs. Bursting out of Jorrvaskr, she ran to where the ancient stone wall jutted out to overlook the rocky hillside below. Curling up on the cold ground, her habitual tears filled her eyes and flowed freely down her face until an alcohol-eased sleep took her.


	4. The Next Morning

**Chapter 4**

Vilkas paced about Kodlak's study, waiting for his mentor to finish with the Dragonborn. Rage still filled him, although it had quieted somewhat after seeing her bloody lips and quickly bruising face. _She deserves every bit of it after that little stunt_, he thought angrily as slow, guarded steps could be heard approaching. Turning towards the door, he let out a sigh of relief as Kodlak entered the room and shut the door.

"Kodlak, did you-" he started, stopping midsentence as the old warrior raised his hand and motioned for him to sit. Vilkas get an uneasy feeling in his stomach as he watched the man he trusted as a father rub his brow wearily. It was not something he saw his master do often and meant that something serious was on his mind.

"What happened in there, Vilkas?" Kodlak started in a tired voice.

"I was sleeping and was awakened by that drunk thrusting a sword…" he trailed off, embarrassment leaving a mark on his fair, Nordic skin. "Well, she put it very close to an area a blade show never be." He finished quickly, avoiding his mentor's eyes.

"I see," he replied after a moment, not a hint at his thoughts revealed by his voice. "Your anger is warranted-"

"So you kicked her out?" Vilkas interrupted, getting a sharp look from the wrinkled man.

"Your anger is warranted, Vilkas, but you should not have acted on it."

"What?" he asked, his mouth falling open slightly.

"She is not in her right mind, but you are. You are smart enough to know that violence only begets more violence. If there is one thing I hope I have taught you is when to use the fire that burns in your heart and when to call it back and let reason and control be your guide."

"But master!" he exclaimed, ignoring the look Kodlak gave him whenever he used the unwanted title. "You can't possibly be forgiving her for this. She fought without honor today and then attacks me in my own bed! How can you ask for me to not react?"

"Because she is here as a personal favor not only to your brother, but also to Vignar, who has much to thank her for."

"But she isn't even that person anymore," Vilkas argued, his frustration building. "She's a drunk and a disgrace to her name. Why are you letting her tarnish the Companions as well?"

"Vignar has hope that she will return to the person she use to be," Kodlak explained. "You must trust me, Vilkas. I have learned much about the Dragonborn when I saw Lydia at Farkas' request. Elsa is not a complete lost cause and if she should improve she would be an asset to us and our name."

"_If_ is the key," the young warrior muttered, crossing his arms across his chest. "I doubt that anything we do will change what she has been doing for years."

"Perhaps, but we must give her a chance. If not for who she was and what she did for all of us all those years ago, then for your brother and his happiness with the woman that he has chosen."

Once again, the thought of Farkas with his big love-struck grin acted to calm some of the adrenaline that coursed through him. Despite his brother's size and skill as a warrior, Vilkas felt the need to protect him from the cruelties of the world that Farkas was blind to. Love, as wonderful as it sounded, could be a dangerous thing when it ended badly. The last thing he wanted was for his twin to have suffer through heartbreak, knowing that his more gentle nature may not be able to overcome the blow.

"I will try, Harbinger," Vilkas said, bowing his head in defeat.

"Good, because I am making her your responsibility."

Vilkas' head shot up, his brow coming together as his silver-grey eyes looked at Kodlak in confusion. "What do you mean she is my responsibility?"

"Until she is ready to take her test to join the Companions she is to do tasks given and supervised by you."

"But, Kodlak, I can barely be around her without feeling anger take over me. If I am to be around her all the time I don't know if I will be able to control both my anger and the beast-blood," He argued, knowing that it was only luck that the monster he had ignored for nearly a year didn't break free in his fury during their fist-fight.

"That is why the task must fall to you," Kodlak said gently. "Patience and empathy are necessary in a good leader, Vilkas, as is a calm and a rational heart."

"I-I understand," he said quietly in defeat before standing. "I will do my best, Harbinger. I won't let you down."

"Good. Now get some rest," Kodlak said, ushering Vilkas out and shutting the door gently behind him.

_The gods must be trying me_, Vilkas thought in the silence of the large open hallway. Moving to his room, he frowned at the mess that was left there. _They really must be trying me_, he thought as he looked at his sword sticking straight up in his bed. How she didn't hit him in her drunken state, he didn't know, but he was glad for it. Running a hand through his thick, black hair, he went to the bed and pulled at the blade, needing more forcer than he thought he would.

Setting his sword down carefully on his table, he let his fingers drift into the hole in his straw mattress, frowning as he realized she had stabbed his sword straight through the thick wooden plank supporting the bed. It was the kind of thrust in a battle that would skewer a man completely through. _She could have killed me_, he thought again, letting some of his anger return.

Blowing out the lone torch that lit his room, he collapsed back on his bed and stared into the darkness, thinking of all the ways to not let Kodlak and Farkas down while getting rid of the horrible woman at the same time. He still had no answers when he felt his eyelids grow heavy and his mind slowly drift into sleep.

.

.

A loud pounding on his door woke him, his head and body aching like he had just fought off a horde of skeevers.

"Vilkas, sun's up," Farkas called through the worn wood of the door.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming," He said, moving slowly as his muscles shook off some of their stiffness. Moving in the darkness, his feet tripped over some of his scattered possession, causing a scowl to cover his face. Opening the door, he grabbed a torch from the hallway and lit the one in his room. Looking around at the destruction, he took inventory of everything that he would need to replace. In the end it was less than he expected, but still enough to cost him all of his wages from a job or two.

"Kodlak, you had better know what your doing," He said to himself as he lifted up the small mirror he kept in a drawer. His face looked about as bad as it felt. His right eye was purple and puffy while half of his lip felt much larger than it should. There were three long cuts running down the majority of his left cheek after her nails had clawed down his face.

Looking at his neck, he had two crusted semi-circles from where her teeth had cut through her skin. Vilkas set the mirror down carefully, deciding that if he were to control his temper it would be best not to give his anger any more fuel than it already had.

"You can do this, Vilkas. You can control your temper and do as Kodlak asks," He repeated to himself several times as he took some water and herbs and quickly rubbed the sweat and grim from the fight off of his body. Feeling clean, he stepped into his armor and ate a modest breakfast that Tilma always left outside his door.

_Alright, let's go find her_, he thought after completing his morning routine, moving up the stairs to the large hall. He scanned the occupants that were eating Tilma's food and chatting away happily. Ria and Athis were already animatedly going over their recent kills while Njada scowled at them. Torvar was most likely still in bed, nursing his own disgraceful habit away from his shield-siblings. Spying his brother in a corner, shoveling in spoonfuls of mash and gravy, Vilkas strode towards him and took the empty chair opposite.

"Have you seen the new blood?" he asked, causing Farkas to look up in concern.

"Why?"

"Kodlak said I was to be responsible for giving her job and watching over her," Vilkas explained.

"He did?"

"It's supposed to teach me patience."

"Humph," Farkas grunted, scooping more food into his mouth, allowing for a brief silence to fall between them until he swallowed. "I haven't seen her this morning. She wasn't with the rest of the whelps when I got up."

Vilkas frowned, "Where else could she be? Lydia wouldn't have let her back home, would she?"

"No," Farkas replied. "Hope she didn't run off."

"Good riddance if she did."

Farkas shrugged, pulling his arms up over his head in a large stretch. "Lydia says she isn't all bad."

"I don't see how she could say even say that. She seems pretty bad to me."

"Well, she's been her Housecarl for nearly fifteen years. Said that Elsa use to be pretty disciplined. Don't know what happened, but she might be able to get better. Lydia hopes she does."

"Don't be expecting a miracle, Farkas," Vilkas said quickly, giving his brother a meaningful look. "This may not turn out the way you want it to."

"Can't hurt to hope."

"Yes, it can," Vilkas said, standing up. "Be careful."

"You worry too much."

Vilkas gave his brother a knowing look before moving towards where Tilma sat polishing some of the silver plates that adorned Jorrvaskr's shelves and walls. "Can you make up enough water for two baths?" he asked quietly.

"I can," she started, giving him a concerned look. "Did you take care of those cuts? I have some healing ointments if you need some."

"I'm fine," he said. "I just need the water."

"Alright, dear," The old woman said, moving to get what he requested.

_Now just to find the whelp_, he thought as he looked around the hall one last time just in case he had missed her. _Maybe she's out in the yard drinking, _he thought as he made his way outside.

The morning air was cool and refreshing, numbing some of the annoying throbs that came from his swollen face. Taking a deep breath, he looked around the training yard and spotted Elsa's leg coming from one of the lookout points on the wall surrounding Whiterun. "She passed out in the yard," He muttered in disbelief. "Even Torvar always finds his bed!"

Moving towards her, he felt some satisfaction at the deep purple hue on half of her face, knowing that he dealt as much to her as she did to him. Nudging her with his boot, she moaned, her face wincing as she grabbed her side.

"Get up, whelp," he said harshly, his eyes taking in the stains on the front of her armor and her bare feet. "It's time to work."

"What time is it?" she groaned, her voice raspy and weak.

"Dawn," Vilkas replied impatiently. "Now get up!"

"Dawn?" she said, moving slowly. Vilkas noticed that her hands shook even worse than they had the day before when they were fighting. It was as if she was afflicted with the Rot, her motions jerky and uncoordinated.

"Where are your boots?" he asked as she slowly rose to her feet, her face curling into a pained wince.

"Traded them for ale," she said, her body swaying slightly with each step. "Talos, I need a drink."

"No," Vilkas replied sternly. "No drinking."

"But-" she started as he walked away.

"Come on, new blood. I am not waiting around for you," he yelled back, his steely eyes narrowing as he glanced back at her. After he was satisfied that she was following him, he led the way back into Jorrvaskr and down the living quarters. "Did you get the water?" he asked Tilma as they walked by.

"I put it in your room," she answered kindly.

"My room?"

"Yes, isn't that where you wanted it?" the old widow asked. "I can move it."

"No, that's fine," he said, looking at her tired face. Turning back to Elsa, he felt a wave of frustration and disbelief run through him as she quietly had consumed not one bottle of mead, but two.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, barely managing to keep from yelling.

"The shelf," she answered, throwing the bottle onto the floor.

"And you drank two? In the few seconds it took for me to talk to Tilma?"

"They're like miniature versions of the kind you can get a Honningbrew," she answered letting out a long belch. "Like they were meant for tiny little people."

_Don't let her get to you_, Vilkas told himself as she continued to talk about how strangely small the bottles were. She didn't seem to notice his jaw stiffening or his hands clenching into irritated fists. In fact, it seemed she became less aware of anything but herself as an alcohol-induced flush began to tint her cheeks.

"ENOUGH!" Vilkas finally yelled, his chest heaving as he attempted to push his anger from him. "_Enough_. Now follow me and shut your mouth, _whelp,_" He finished through gritted teeth.

Never had he met someone so infuriating and disgusting in all of his thirty-three years. In that time he had seen his fair share of new bloods and had been in charge of many of them as Kodlak's unofficial second. Yet none got under his skin like Elsa. She was a worthless drunk, not even worthy of notice let alone titles and property. If it weren't for Farkas and the Harbinger, he wouldn't even be attempting to control his anger.

"Hey, buddy. Fuck you," She said, marching towards him, her face twisted into an ugly, aggressive look. "_What_ is your problem?" she said, moving so that she was only inches from his face.

Vilkas looked down at her, his nose wrinkling at the smell of sweat and stale mead wafting off her greasy, matted hair. "You are my problem." He said in a dangerously soft voice, pausing as his jaw locked, making his next words come out in short, angry bursts. "You are a FILTHY PIECE OF SKEEVER SHIT!" he yelled, causing her to fall back and pull at her ears. "You are a disgrace and aren't worthy of _any _of this! Now, follow me and SHUT UP!"

Vilkas stormed down the halls towards his room, his head hot and his blood boiling. A few animalistic sounds escaped his lips, the rush of anger exciting the long-denied beast inside him. Walking into his room, his mood soured even more as he looked at all of his destroyed property still strewn about the floor.

"Well, I'm here. What's my task today? Shine your boots? Braid your hair?" Elsa said from the doorway, her voice mockingly sweet.

Vilkas swallowed the low, guttural rumble that was building in his throat, his silver eyes narrowing under his war paint and purple bruise. "You will wash-up," He said, pointing to the now cool water that sat in six buckets next to a large, wooden tub.

"What?" she said blandly, her brow furrowing in confusion. "I don't need to wash-up."

Vilkas stood, his lips a thin as he scanned the floor. Moving across the room, he picked up beehive husk lined with tundra cotton, two salt piles, and some thistles. Putting the latter items into the tub, he silent dumped two buckets of water over them. He looked over to see Elsa watching him, her black and blue face puffy and covered in grit.

Walking over to her he let his eyes wander to her dirt-covered arms, and down to her black feet. Looking beyond the filth that covered her, he could see wiry muscles that tugged at her thin skin, years of a liquid diet taking its toll. He briefly thought of the rumors he had heard about the Dragonborn when she had first appeared nearly fifteen years ago. People who had the _privilege_ to see her had said that she had the strong body of a warrior with the face of prized maiden. He had even heard that her eyes were brighter than a pale sapphire, hinting at her sharp mind.

Vilkas never had the opportunity to see the Dragonborn during the Dragon Crisis. She had resided mainly in Markarth and Solitude, her visits to Whiterun few and far between. It wasn't until she had relocated to Breezehome that he finally had a chance to see the legendary hero herself, only to realize that the rumors of her drunkenness and dishonorable public displays were the truth, not those of quick wits and a strong arm. There also wasn't any trace of the _fair maiden_ that she had been, if those tales were even true. He was convinced the exaggerated rumors from her youth were only the result of hero-worship and had no foundation. They most certainly didn't now.

Moving behind her, he let out a small snort of revulsion as he lifted his hands and gave her a hard shove. Elsa gave a surprised shout as she landed head first in the cold water. Vilkas let himself smile as she coughed and choked up some of the salty sweet water, each breath bring a pained expression on her face due to her ribs.

"Now wash-up!" Vilkas said sternly, his eyes showing the pleasure he got from seeing her pain. "And do a good job of it, _whelp_." He finished, throwing the rough beehive husk at her and returning to his chair.

Picking up a book on Dwemer mechanical innovation, he could feel her eyes glaring at him from the tub where she sat. He smiled behind the pages as the slosh of water marked her moving around in the tub. He assumed she was scrubbing her hair or arms until a drenched piece of leather suddenly landed on him, soaking the delicate pages of his latest hobby.

"What it the name of Talos are you doing?" he yelled, flinging the wet armor off of him and looking at her in disbelief.

"You told me to bathe," she said in a snotty voice, crossing her arms over small piece of linen that covered her chest. "I can't do that through armor. Obviously."

Vilkas felt his face go red in embarrassment over her near nudity. His mouth opened slightly as he took in the deep purple on her side from where he had kicked her before taking in a jagged, red scar on the middle of her belly, marking a wound that in many would prove to be fatal. His eyes followed the scar as it cut through a swirling tattoo that moved up her left side in three dark lines that curved off a large, open circle. She didn't seem to have any issues standing before a man she barely knew in nothing but her undergarments, not even a hint of a blush rising in her as he stared. _Why did I expect modesty from her?_ He asked himself as he thought of all the occasions she had been escorted by the city guard from the Bannered Mare, Dragonsreach, or even the market for not being properly dressed.

"Is this a problem? I didn't realize you _Companions_ were so modest," she sneered, her voice challenging.

He let his grey-flecked eyes meet hers and saw her waiting expectantly, as if she was daring him to stay in the room, daring him to admit that it was a stupid idea to force her to get clean. "I said to wash-up, _not_ bathe! But, fine, clean yourself in any way you want, but I am not leaving _you_ alone in my room. You've already done enough damage to it with me being here," he said, holding her gaze, refusing to be the first to break it.

"Fine by me," she said sinking back into the tub, lifting her legs out from the already gritty water and scrubbing them with the rough beehive husk.

He returned to his book, focusing on the complex mathematics the mage Calcelmo used to explain how the Dwemer could build complex machines hundreds of years ago. Occasionally, Elsa would splash about or make a noise, his eyes flicking up to see her looking at him intently, watching for a reaction. After a few times of not rising to her childish tricks, she seemed to focus on scrubbing the layers of dirt and grime from her skin.

_She acts like a child with only four winters,_ he thought with a frown. _Lydia must have done most of the work when they were slaying the dragons._

A loud splash caused his eyes to shoot up, only to see her standing facing away from him as she dumped a cold bucket of water on her head, her blonde hair hanging in a damp sheet to her shoulder blades. Again, heat rose to his face at the sight of her barely covered body, but his stubbornness forced him to remain where he was, refusing to allow her to think that she beat him after he forced her to do something she didn't want to. "Are you about done, whelp. You have a lot of work to do today," he said evenly, not taking his eyes off the soggy page he was reading.

"Yes," she said with enthusiasm.

Vilkas didn't like the small laugh she let out, his gut telling him that she was going to do something that would probably result in him either having a headache or yelling. _Probably both_, he thought sourly. "Then why aren't you getting dressed?"

"I lost the bag Lydia gave me with clothes. I have nothing to wear," she said with a mischievous smile. "I can't possibly work wearing only my underclothing!"

Vilkas felt the familiar twitch at the corner of his lips as he gave her a deep frown. "Fine," he said standing and walking out into the hall where he and Farkas kept a chest of old weapons and armor that they no longer used. Rummaging through the contents, he found some plain linen pants and a blue linen shirt that had been his when he was twelve or thirteen. He smiled, knowing that she would look ridiculous in them.

Returning to the room, he threw them at her meeting her astonished gaze. "Put them on so we can get started."

She stepped out of the filthy tub, her skin red from how hard she had scrubbed it. _Stubborn woman,_ he thought, knowing her protests against washing were nothing more than a way to ignore his authority.

"What is this?" she asked in disgust as she pulled the pants on, the bottoms ending just below her knee while the shirt clung tightly to her malnourished frame, the sleeves too short and a large portion of her stomach showing.

"Some clothes from when I was a boy. It's all I have that would fit your weak body," he answered. "Perhaps we can find you some armor once you've proven you're a warrior instead of a pathetic drunk."

Elsa's face went red as she struggled to bite back a remark. "You are a…" she trailed off, shaking her wet hair in frustration.

"What am I, whelp? I dare you to tell me," he said softly, getting up close to her, challenging her to strike out at him. Her light blue eyes held a spark of anger that seemed to fit the redness that surrounded them as she glared up towards him. He watched as she visibly was struggling to control the urge to hit him, his whole being hoping she would.

"What do you need me to do," she finally bit out, her eyes darting to the floor as she stewed in her anger.

Vilkas smiled as he realized that her submission made him almost as happy as her failure would. "Oh, we have quite the list…"


	5. The Buckets

**AN: Sorry this didn't post the first time for some reason. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

It took all of Elsa's willpower to hold her tongue as she looked up at the malicious grin that Vilkas was giving her. She wished she were just a little taller so that she could look him directly in the eye instead of staring at his mouth or having to glare upwards. Any affect her glare would have on him she felt was lost by looking like a weak, vulnerable woman. Still, being taller didn't seem to matter after a few seconds of holding his steely gaze. His eyes were unnerving and for the second time she couldn't help but think of a wild beast stalking prey when she looked at them. There was something distinctly inhuman about his silver-grey orbs and she doubted it was just because of the black smudge of war paint. She began to feel slightly nervous at his unblinking stare, her face warming as she broke their contact and looked quickly to the ground.

"What do you need me to do?" she spat out bitterly, the words tasting like bile as they left her lips. She could practically feel his smile as she submitted to his dominance. _At least for now,_ she thought, the dull pain of her injuries acting as a reminder of what tangling with Vilkas resulted in.

"Oh, we have quite the list," he said, taking a step away from her. "First, you're going take care of the water and your greasy filth. We'll see how well you can handle that, whelp, before you get any more work."

"I'm not a servant," she hissed, her wounded pride forcing her eyes to move back towards him only to see him smiling broadly.

"No, you aren't. You're less than a servant. Servants are useful, but you are _worthless_, Elsa Fire-Storm. Don't you forget it," he said, grabbing her shirt roughly and pulling her up so that she was only a breath away from his face. "Now hurry up and do your work, or else I'll tell Kodlak that you refuse."

A cold reality swept over her as he pushed her away and gave her a dark look that was filled with malice that cut through the hazy cloud that often filled her mind when she drank. A shudder ran through her as she recognized the cool superiority that filled his eyes. It was the same look she had received from the Thalmor whenever she had the misfortune of running into them. Yet, there was more there than just that, Vilkas also had a hot rage and hate that shone through his eyes, much like the look she saw during her years of fighting the Imperials on behalf of the Stormcloaks. They were both looks that spoke of a deep desire to see her completely destroyed, doing whatever was necessary to bring about her ruin.

This was only accentuated by his verbal threat, as she realized that Vilkas was not an annoying peon that she could ignore as she wished. He had been given power over her beyond the task of giving her work and monitoring her progress as Kodlak had made it originally sound. _Be careful, Elsa,_ she warned herself as the full enormity of her relationship with the Companion finally became clear. _He has the power, for now,_ she lectured, pushing down the rebellious urge that wanted to do something rash and stupid, remembering everything the old Harbinger had told her about the Jarl's threat.

Biting her tongue, she moved towards the large tub full of water and began painfully pushing it after the scowling Companion. Her ribs began to throb angrily at the exertion, each breath becoming another form of punishment as he led her to a small alcove that had a drain in the floor. For a moment, she wised she had been able to find more to drink so that her mind would be free of the horrible logic and reality she just discovered, allowing her to react with the wild heat liquor seemed to give her. _Don't do anything stupid until you understand the limits,_ she told herself again, trying to control the urges she had gotten into the habit of giving into.

"Now get rid of your filth, _whelp_," Vilkas sneered, leaning back against the wall with a smile that clearly showed how much he was enjoying the power he had over her.

She shot him an angry look, but did not push her luck as she struggled to tip the tub over and let the water spill into the dark opening. Holding the tub up as it drained made her muscles ache and her side scream. Her arms shook as she forced them to contract, their involuntary quivers only adding to her discomfort. She gave a sideways glance towards the smiling Nord, her mouth setting into a thin line. _Make him miserable, but just don't cross the line,_ she told herself as her anger built at his obvious pleasure in her pain.

"Barely strong enough to do housework. You are pathetic," Vilkas said, his smile growing larger as she felt her face grow red with anger.

She clenched her fists and focused on the small bite of her nails against her skin, doing her best to not respond to his taunts. Until she was sure of where she stood and exactly how much she could get away with she did not want to tangle herself with someone as dangerous as Vilkas. Especially since his words had convinced her that he understood just how precarious her current situation. For all that she knew, all it would take is a word from the warrior to the Harbinger to set in motion the Jarl's threat, leaving her friendless and broke.

_Stay calm,_ she told herself again, feeling her jaw clench with her frustration. "Just tell me what to do next."

"Now," he stared with a nasty grin, "You can take care of all of the Circle's night buckets."

She gave him a wide-eyed look, disbelief filling her at the disrespectful request. "You dare ask the _Dragonborn_ to clean up your shit?" she hissed, despite her attempts at self control. "_After all I've done for Whiterun, let alone Skyrim?__" _she finished in a shout, not caring about the pain it caused her.

"Shit deserves to be with shit," he said darkly, moving down the hall and pointing to a set of rooms on the opposite side that she had never been in before. "Now get the buckets and we'll go down to the river so you can clean them out, _Dragonborn_," he finished with a laugh.

Elsa stared at him for a moment, her rage near boiling over. _How dare he?_ she thought as her jaw tightened so that her teeth began to grind. _After all I did for Skyrim?_ Yet, he gave no signs of backing down. Biting the inside of her lip, she followed the direction of his pointed finger and easily found the half-filled bucket of human filth. Lifting it, she felt her arm ache and her side throb, her injuries from her sparring match with Vilkas and their fight adding to her general weakness from lack of use.

"Hurry up, whelp. I don't have all day," her Companion overlord called from the hall. "You still have Kodlak's room and mine and Farkas'."

"Bastard," she muttered under her breath as she slowly moved out of the room and set the bucket carefully down. She glared at him as he pointed her towards the Harbinger's room, a self-satisfied smile causing his eyes to sparkle cruelly from under the dark war paint.

"Such a bastard," she hissed as she grabbed the nearly empty bucket from the old man's room and set it next to the first one. She didn't even bother to look at the Companion as she moved towards his small hallway, already feeling her wounded pride adding fuel to the anger that was starting to burn inside of her. Collecting the rather full bucket belonging to the twins, she carefully maneuvered her way back towards the hall.

"Agh!" she yelled as the thick slurry of waste sloshed slightly, the smell making her gag.

"Horker loaf doesn't sit well with Farkas," Vilkas said when she flashed him a fierce look, his smile only growing wider on his angular face.

"I hope you get rockjoint," she grumbled as she picked up the two lighter buckets with her empty hand, her arms shaking enough to cause the slop to lap at the sides of the worn wood of the pails.

If he heard her, he didn't say anything, instead he motioned for her to move up the stairs. She shot him a look that held all of the anger that was building in her, but his smile only seemed to get bigger. _Fucker_, she thought as she struggled up the stairs, little flecks of moisture hitting her fingers as the human waste sloshed with her jerky movements.

The noise of the main hall slowly quieted as she emerged from the staircase, buckets in hand. She felt the blood rising to her cheeks at the mocking stares coming from the Dunmer and a helmeted Nord woman as she passed by their table. The auburn woman she had heard called Aela seemed to be holding in laughter, as did the battle-worn man that sat next to her, making her blush even deeper.

_Oblivion take you all,_ she thought as she forced herself to move with as much speed as she could physically muster while keeping the buckets from spilling. It wasn't nearly fast enough to avoid hearing Vilkas' accented whisper float towards her ears, followed by the Aela woman and the man next to her to start laughing.

Her skin burned crimson as their laughs filled the hall while she set down a bucket and opened the door. "Fuck all of them," she mumbled as she escaped into the bright light of midday, the laughs fading as the door shut behind her.

"To the river outside the gates, whelp," Vilkas said as he bounded out of Jorrvaskr, his confident steps reminding Elsa of the pompous son of the Count in Bruma, where she grew-up.

"_To the river outside the gates,_" she mumbled in a mocking tone, her frustration getting the best of her. "_I'm Vilkas and I'm better than everybody."_

Thankfully the warrior didn't hear her as she clambered down the stairs, the feces and urine splashing up on her hands with her uneven steps. She frowned at the small brown speckles that dried on her skin, her nose curling with the increasing smell. Slowing her speed so that the disgusting fluids wouldn't spray up on her, she felt the heavy pressure of eyes watching her slow progress. She could hear whispers about the state of her face and all of the bruises she had. No one seemed upset that she was so battered, but rather their words grew louder and more excited as she slowly moved by. She tried to force her mind to not listen to the foolish gossip of the vendors and their shoppers, but she couldn't drown out their comments about the smell coming from her and the buckets she carried or on the clothes she wore, her dark scar easily visible to anyone that cared to look. She felt a deep pang of anger fill her as she heard one man speculate that the scar must have been from her falling onto a sword while in a drunken stupor.

_Stay calm, Elsa_, she told herself, pushing the cruel remarks from her mind and swallowing the curses she was ready to fling at him and the others. Yet, as they moved closer and closer to the gates the task of self-control became more and more difficult. The comments coming from the nosy people of Whiterun ranged from mildly annoying to incredibly insulting, calling her everything from skeever dung to a drunken whore.

As they neared Breezehome, two old women immediately began clucking away. "Do you see her hair?" one asked the other loudly. "It looks as if its ready to fall out!"

"It's no surprise, she must be riddled with diseases!" the other gasped. "She even let herself be marked."

"Horrid things, those tattoos. Only vagabonds and mercenaries have them," the first lady sniffed, her nose thrown imperiously in the air.

Elsa felt her blood pressure rise as they spoke about her as if she couldn't hear them, her last bit of control falling away. "Mind your own damn business, you old bats!" she spat at the women as they passed.

The two women made shocked noises, their hands going to their chests while Vilkas gave her a hard shove, causing the buckets to slosh wildly and land on her bare feet. "Mind your manners, whelp."

Elsa felt her stomach roll as the cool, thick slurry hit her skin and ran between her toes. An involuntary gag made her body shake, causing even more of the mess to splash up on her hands. The two women made a disgusted noise, commenting on the smell before wandering off towards the Cloud District. Elsa stared after them, cursing their families before turning her gaze back to Vilkas. "I don't have diseases."

Vilkas snorted and rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything as he moved towards the gate, leaving her standing outside the cold doors of Breezehome. Glancing at the dark windows of her former home, she felt a surge of hatred and anger rise through her. "I will make you pay for this, Lydia," she muttered, continuing on her slow walk to the gates.

"Get a move on, Dragonborn. Cleaning shit shouldn't take all day," the hated Companion called up from where he stood by the gates, the guards doing their best to act as if they weren't watching the little display that had occurred.

"Shut up, Vilkas," she spat angrily, her previous desire to not push her luck being over shadowed by the disrespect and contempt she had received from all the people she had saved from Alduin. _It's not fair,_ she thought as she moved quickly through the opened gates.

"Careful, whelp," he hissed from behind her as they began moving down the sloping path towards the river. "It would do you well to remember your place."

_You should remember yours,_ she thought bitterly as each step sent a dull throb through her side and a burning ache in her arms and legs. _You and everyone else would be dead if it wasn't for me._

Yet, it didn't seem that it mattered that she was the Dragonborn or that she had saved Skyrim. No one during their journey towards the river had yelled in outrage at the severe injustice she was suffering. No one had even greeted her in a friendly voice, sending blessings onto her and her family. _None of them care anymore that I sacrificed everything for them,_ she thought darkly, the poison of bitterness settling deeply in her already nauseous stomach. _Ungrateful, ignorant, shit-filled-_

"Elsa!" Vilkas shouted, pulling her from her thoughts. "Get over here!"

Looking around, she realized she had been wandering towards the small stone bridge that crossed the river as if she were going to be traveling to Riverwood. Vilkas had moved down stream from there and was staring at her impatiently. Sighing heavily, she slowly moved towards him, seeing the brown mound where the rest of the town dumped their waste near the river.

As she moved towards the pile of waste, she noticed that there was a large, round opening with a pipe hanging out from the ancient Whiterun wall. _There's a sewer system?_ She took a few steps closer before she confirmed that the pipe was indeed to remove the waste from the city. A cold rage rose up in her as she thought of all the humiliation she suffered while walking through the city. Vilkas seemed to notice her change in attitude, glancing back at the pipe before giving her a large, satisfied smile.

"You bas-" she started to yell as she rushed towards him, her foot catching on something and throwing her off balance. She let out a cry of surprise as she tripped forward, the buckets swing wildly as she automatically flung her arms out to break the fall. Her body hit the ground hard, her arms unable to keep her from landing face first on the firm ground, her arms and the buckets landing just above her head.

Elsa felt a wave of sickness fill her as the cool, lumpy liquid poured out of the pails and covered not only the front of her shirt, but oozed onto her hair and her face. She didn't know if she wanted to scream, vomit, or cry as she slowly pushed herself from the ground and wiped the feces from her eyes with her soiled fingers, the smell burning her nostrils and throat.

Nearby, Vilkas was bent over in laughter. She felt her rage building as she watched him hug his sides and his face become red with his amusement. "This isn't funny!"

"Yes it is!" he laughed, tears falling from his eyes as he stared at her and howled out a cackle that sounded more like a wild dog than a man.

"Stop it!" she yelled, standing and motioning to herself, the waste dripping from her hair and chin. "_Look at me_!"

Vilkas took a moment and smothered his laughs, his hand carelessly wiping away the tears that had filled his eyes. "I don't see anything different from how you normally look, whelp," he said, a small snort of laughter escaping from him.

Elsa stared at him for a moment in complete shock, her jaw shaking as she tried to stifle the desire to run over and attack the pompous warrior. Yet, she knew that her body would not take well to yet another fight. As it was, her face ached from their last meeting that resulted in fists while her side did nothing be throb and ache. _No, Elsa, find another way,_ she told herself as she quickly turned to the river, her head starting to feel tight as her few drinks were quickly being metabolized and very near to leaving her in a bad state should she not get a drink and soon.

Grabbing the empty buckets, she threw them into the slowly trickling river before following them in herself. The water was cold against her bare feet, but she would rather freeze than be covered in someone else's filth. The flesh raised on her arms and legs as she sank into the water, her breath catching slightly with the shock of the cold. Dunking her head beneath the frigid surface, she moved her hands vigorously over her scalp, little soft clumps of feces breaking apart as her fingers did their work. Resurfacing after a moment, she let a sharp gasp escape her lips, the brown-tinged water dripping down her face making her gag violently.

"Don't let the buckets wash away, whelp," Vilkas called out, the grin that lighted his face still infuriatingly in place.

"Fuck you!" she shouted at him, her voice catching as a few hot tears fell from her eyes, mixing in with the filth that still covered her. A burning feeling rose in her throat as her stomach emptied of all of the precious mead she had drank that morning as more water fell into her mouth. Her body shook with more heaves at the taste, her eyes stinging with tears. She dunked herself again, her hands doing their best to clean out her thick hair, while she screamed out some of her furry into the frigid river. Coming up for air, she was happy to see the water that ran from her head was clear instead of pale brown, but her heart still felt full of anger and hate.

_Just go get the buckets,_ she told herself, trying to swallow back the scream that wanted to escape her lips. _Get the buckets and calm down_, she told herself as she carefully kicked began to kick her way down stream to catch the three pails that were floating away. Her muscles felt stiff and useless in the water, the cold making the short swim a difficult one. Each kick caused her legs to pull uncomfortably as the weakened muscles contracted, acting as an unwanted reminder to how much she had let herself go, but it was better than the sting of rejection and hatred. She swore under her breath as she reached the buckets.

"They have no idea what you've done for them," she darkly. "They have no fucking idea."

Grabbing the buckets angrily, she felt a few more tears make a warm path down her face as she kicked her way to shore. "Tomorrow I will start training again," she told herself. "Even if it's just to beat Vilkas,"

Crawling back onto shore, she flopped onto the tall grass, exhaustion filling her. For a long time, she stared up at the sky taking in the clouds and cursing everyone and everything in Skyrim.

"Hurry up, whelp!" Vilkas shouted from where he still stood, his body a small, bright light in the late afternoon sun.

_Just finish your job,_ she told herself, standing on shaking legs. _Finish your job and worry about everything later_.

Pushing her troubles from her mind instead of facing them was nothing new to her, but her anger made it slightly more difficult than it was when she was drunk. No matter, she slowly dusted off her clothes before carefully twisting her hair to free it of water when a sharp pain shot through her foot.

"What the-" she started, hopping slightly at the pain. Looking down to see what she had stepped on, she was shocked to see a tiny little mud crab clinging to her big toe with its claw. Leaning over, she grabbed at the little thing's body and tried to pull it off.

"You're a strong little thing, aren't you?" she said with a slight grimace after the crab seemed to grip harder on her foot, the skin breaking open and bleeding a little. She frowned at the little creature, knowing she could just use a rock and kill it, but it seemed so helpless and small that she didn't have the heart to crush it.

_Maybe if I used…_she trailed off as the strange tightness began to build in her chest and throat, her mind slowly thinking of the words that had become a part of her along with the souls she had absorbed. Closing her eyes, she ignored the slight wave of dizziness and imbalance she felt without having something to visually hold the world still as she whispered down at the little crab in the ancient tongue. "Raan Mir Tah."

Elsa felt a strange calm wash over her as the words left her lips. It was like the feeling of a cool breeze tickling her skin after hours in the hot sun. There was a relief in releasing the innate power that she hadn't used in years, her body relaxing and the pain that had been plaguing her dulling. Opening her eyes, she looked down to see the little mud crab had released her foot and remained still by her feet.

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" she said, scooping the creature up. It kept strangely calm as she held it in her palm, its grey body only cover half of her hand.

"You're just a baby, aren't you?" she cooed to the little creature, a small smile twitching at her lips. For a moment, she forgot about the pain in her body or her need for more liquor. She even let her frustrations over her current situation sweep away as she lightly let her fingertips glide over the smooth shell of the crab, assuming the little clicks it made were those of happiness at being petted.

"Are you about done over there?" Vilkas' voice called out, pulling her out of the brief moment of piece.

"Impatient bastard," she grumbled, pulling her eyes from her new friend. "But he doesn't have to know about you. You can be my pet!" she said to the crab as she delicately set him in one of the buckets and began walking towards her taskmaster. "You'll be the only friend I have."

Moving as slowly as possible, she took nearly fifteen minutes to get back to where Vilkas was waiting with his arms crossed and a deep scowl lining his face. It wasn't with some satisfaction that she moved by him towards the gate, seeing his eyes furrow with his displeasure. Elsa began to wonder if the deep creases in his forehead and at the corners of his mouth were permanent fixtures on his narrow face. It was a sharp contrast to the dull, content look she had seen from Farkas during their few interactions.

"What were you doing down there?" the lean Nord asked, his sharp eyes narrowing into thin slits as he glared down at her so that the startling silver color was barely visible in the dark rings of his war paint.

"Stubbed my toe," she answered elusively, not bothering to stop and wait for him. She needed to get back to Whiterun and find something to drink as the calm, content feeling from releasing a little of her power was quickly being overrun by her progressing withdrawal. She could feel a cold sweat beginning to cover her brow and her muscles shaking with a little more urgency than normal as she weaved her way towards the city gates. She paid no attention to anyone she passed, thinking only of ale and the little creature that was currently her only friend.


	6. Smells

**AN: Lots of Vilkas in this one. Also, I have not forgotten my other projects, they just need more time to solidify.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

Vilkas watched Elsa walk past him, a sense of unease filling him. He couldn't quite place it, but there was something _different_ about her that was beyond his human senses. Closing his eyes, he let his instincts take control and drew in a deep breath through his nose, allowing her scent to stimulate the part of him that was anything but human. At first he felt like gagging, the reek of urine and feces still lingering on her skin and clothes. His nose twitched as the odor dominated his senses until he was able to detect the more subtle scents that lay hidden beneath the human waste.

First, he noticed the smell of fermented barley and honey, the sickly sweet smell making his head swim. It seemed to ooze from her cells, as if her body was vainly trying to rid itself of the sweet poison. It tickled his nostrils as he tried to move past the fruity smells, a small sneeze forcing the scent out.

Frowning, he took another quick sniff, bracing himself for a similar assault of irritating scents, but found that he was able to acclimate to the powerful smells and find what lingered beyond them. First, he found the smells of thistle and salt from the water she had washed in that morning. It was a clean smell, but like the others, was nothing more than something her skin had clung to. He was more interested in the deeper scents, the ones that only came after a lifetime of experiences and clung to a person, never to let go.

Moving past the thistles and salt it only took a few minutes to distinguish the subtle traces of what made up Elsa Fire-Storm. It was not the ale or liquor that she was forcing in her body, but rather a surprising mixture of ash and metal. He lingered on the smell, focusing on it to make it stronger so that he felt he could almost taste the dry smokiness of burnt-up coals and the sharpness of steel and iron.

It was not the most uncommon mixture of scents, but he had rarely found it on a woman. In his experience the scents that made up the core of most women was a mixture of something earthy, like potatoes or leeks, with the tanginess of mountain flowers or snowberries. Occasionally, he had come across a woman with something stronger, like Adrianne Avenicci, the Imperial blacksmith that owned Warmaiden near the city gates. Her essence was oak and pine, the sturdy woods matching with her hardheaded personality. Yet, that still was more common on a woman than ash and steel. Even Aela, a true warrior and huntress, didn't have an aroma that was so _brawny_, but was wild mixture of antlers, feathers, and claws.

He felt a twinge of curiosity rise in him at Elsa's core scent, causing him to clear his nose and breath again, catching her smell on the breeze that constantly was blowing. It took a few seconds for him to work his way through the smells again until he got back to the traces of metallic ash. Once more he rolled it around on his nose, letting it settle on the back of his throat when suddenly he picked up something deeper, something very _interesting_.

He flared his nostrils slightly and squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to place the scent. It wasn't sweet, but it wasn't unpleasant, either. There was almost something musty about the smell, similar to the ancient tombs filled with draugr, but it was more feral in nature and more _alive_, if that was possible. He cleared his mind and let words come as they pleased, waiting for something to sound right to describe what it was that he had found. No plants seemed to fit, not even those found in caves. Nor did any beasts that he knew of. It wasn't a scent he would link with a place, such as the salty air of Solitude or the fishy stench of Riften, bring him back the closed air of a long-forgotten tomb that was filled with a powerful, ancient life.

Opening his eyes, he looked up the path where Elsa was slowly weaving her way back towards Whiterun. He felt a frown push down at his lips, the skin on his forehead and around his eyes wrinkling as he tried to figure out what the new scent meant. The deeper the scent the more ingrained it was in the person's essence, making what he was doing almost like smelling the soul. It told him a lot about the person and the traits that would drive them. He didn't like not being able to place a smell and know what it meant since it made that person unpredictable, which was a dangerous thing for a warrior.

_Perhaps it was something else I smelt on the wind,_ he thought as he moved a few steps to be closer to her before smelling again, shutting his eyes so he could focus. Yet after sorting through the things he had already identified, the odd smell was still there, mocking him as it circled through his nose.

Blinking his eyes open, he felt the muscles on his forehead tighten into deep ridges in frustration. _It must have always been there, though I didn't notice it when I met her,_ he thought, remembering how he had actually avoided breathing too deeply around her greasy, sweat soaked body when she first arrived at Jorrvaskr. Her appearance alone was enough to ward off any invitations for a quick sniff by anyone, let alone someone with a heightened sense of smell. In fact, this was the first time that he had allowed himself to determine her scent and identify her by it. _Definitely metal and ash are part of her,_ he mused quietly trying to see if there was some connection between those smells and the other scent while he quickly walked after her, breathing deeply in a vain attempt to unravel the puzzle.

Unfortunately, the unknown smell seem to be fading from his grasp, becoming only a faint tingle underneath the more dominant aromas by the time they neared the gate. This confused him even more, as most smells that lingered that deeply didn't wax and wane like the more superficial scents of the world. It almost reminded him of the core warriors of the Companions that made up the Circle. All of them, including himself, had a specific scent that would fluctuate depending on their answering the call of their blood.

_But hers is not like that,_ he thought sternly, pushing the possibility that she shared in their curse out of his mind. _I would have seen the signs if she was like us_.

He moved closer to her as they entered Whiterun, catching a small, secretive smile playing at her cracked lips.

_There's something not right about it,_ he decided, frowning deeper as she continued to smile. It softened her bony features and made her dull, inflamed eyes sparkle with life of a moment before returning to their normal glazed look.

"She's up to something," he mumbled softly, keeping a few paces behind her on their slow walk back to Jorrvaskr. He continued to examine her with his sharp eyes searching for any clues to what she was up to, but was unable to discover anything. Instead, he only saw her deteriorating body's reaction to years of drinking. Her legs and arms shook slightly as she moved while her steps were erratic and uncontrolled. Her muscles were small, stringy things that pulled visibly under her thin, malnourished skin with every movement. She lacked grace, beauty, and her expressions were devoid of any sense of life or energy. Even her pale, white-blonde hair, which perhaps once had potential of being pretty, was a thick mess of dull and wispy strands as it dried into a slight wave. Everything about her looked as if she were suffering from a long, horrific sickness that she was still recovering from, but it was all from her drinking. He scowled at the thought that she could have ever been a warrior mighty enough to kill a dragon, ash and steel aside.

"Dragonborn," he muttered with a laugh as they moved through the city, the streets quieter than they had been earlier. "The gods must have a sense of humor to make someone like you Dragonborn."

She glanced back at him, her light eyes focusing in on him, losing their distant gaze that marked her mind as having traveled to some faraway place. "The gods mock us all."

The darkness in her tone surprised him, but he decided not to comment on it. He didn't care what thoughts plagued her or why she deserved chance after chance to change. She was an annoying, weak, pathetic excuse for a warrior and a disgrace to Skyrim and all those that had viewed her as a hero. He hoped that she felt ashamed and dishonored by the disappointed looks people gave her as they passed. He hoped that she realized that she was nothing to almost everyone in Skyrim and if it weren't for her title she would be most likely be dead in a gutter. Yet he knew instead of acknowledging her worthlessness she was probably pitying herself just as she had been since she arrived at Jorrvaskr.

_Let her sulk._ _At least she's quiet and not making a fool of the Companions right now, _he thought grimly as they passed by many of the shopkeepers that were already closing down for the day. Elsa had taken hours to get to the river and complete her job, but he didn't mind, the image of her face covered in shit still made him smile. _It was worth the wasted day_.

As they reached the worn doors of Jorrvaskr, Vilkas let some of his frustration and anger leave him. Touching the worn wood of the building, he felt its weathered smoothness, thinking of all the great men and women that had filled its hall at one time. Closing his eyes while Elsa fumbled with the door, he breathed deeply taking in the unique smell of sweat, blood, steel, man, and beast and letting it calm some of the frustrations that had been plaguing him. The old building was his refuge and his home, it was strong and respected, mimicking the traits of a Companion with its thick beams and bowed roof. It was one of the few places in the world that he felt that he could relax and think clearly, making every homecoming feel wonderful, no matter how short the absence.

Opening his eyes, he watched the Dragonborn's hands shake, still not managing to open the simple latch. The movements were no longer small, quick tremors but had become larger, more obvious vibrations that only seemed to worsen as her body swayed. _Alcohol must be getting to her_, he thought dully, taking in the clammy appearance her face had developed over their walk from the river. He smiled, hoping that whatever she was feeling hurt.

"Just open," he heard her mutter as she scrunched her face in concentration, forcing her hands to pull down on the metal handle and begin to twist the full rotation before a set of quick shakes caused her grip to fail and the handle to return to its original position.

"Can't even manage a door, whelp?" Vilkas said with a wicked grin.

She gave him a quick look, but remained silent as she concentrated on the door once more. It took nearly three more attempts before the tiny click of the latch opening sang out from beneath the thick wood. She let out a sigh of relief and picked up the buckets, stumbling roughly inside.

"Careful!" came the voice of the only elf in the Companions, Athis, as Elsa nearly knocked him over with her uncoordinated movements.

Vilkas followed her in and shut the door behind him, watching carefully as she stumbled down the two steps that opened to the long communal dining tables. She looked absolutely sickly in the warm glow of the fire Tilma had made, her skin slick with sweat and an off-shade of yellow.

Athis gave her a nasty glare before moving towards Vilkas, shaking his head. "I didn't realize the Companions were just letting anyone join these days. Doesn't make one very motivated to be a part of this outfit."

"We aren't," he snapped, his patience low for Athis' typical snobbish attitudes. "This is a favor for Vignar."

They both turned and looked to where Elsa and slumped into an empty chair in the corner, Torvar approaching her with drinks in his hands. "Some favor," Athis scowled before moving down the steps and sitting as far as he could from the two drunks to eat his dinner, Njada and Ria moving to sit next to him.

"Damn elves and their complaining," Vilkas muttered, ignoring the group of unproven whelps as he moved to where the troublesome Dragonborn was greedily drinking whatever Torvar handed her.

"The shakes are the worse," he heard the drunken Nord say, his unkempt beard and red eyes showing how far he had gotten in his own drinking. "Can't seem to do anything when you've got those."

"There's worse than the shakes," she answered between gulps.

"What are you doing?" Vilkas asked, watching the little exchange with a deep frown.

"Helping our new shield-sister out," Torvar slurred, his flushed face breaking into a stupid grin.

"She is _not a shield-sister_," he hissed, grabbing the bottle from his hand and dumping it on the floor. "I don't want to see you giving her any more of this!"

"Oh, come on Vilkas," Torvar laughed. "What's the harm? I drink and I can still do my work just fine!"

"You do not do your work _just fine_," he spat, giving one of his deep glares to the barely proven Nord. "You nearly got killed Farkas during your test!"

"I had everything under control-" Torvar started, causing Vilkas to give him a look of warning.

The drunken man stopped and blinked a few times dully at him, his words caught in his mouth. "I – I think I'll go over there now," he finally said, moving quickly towards the other new bloods, avoiding the sharp, angry look that Vilkas was throwing him.

"Almost killed your brother, sounds worse than me," Elsa said with a slight burp, the few bottles on the table rattling as she flopped her arm down in exhaustion.

"You're both worthless," he replied sternly. "Now go and put the buckets away."

Elsa stood roughly, her arms making tight, jerking movements as she used the table to prop herself up. "Then what do you want me to do?" she said wearily, her face still pale and wet with sweat.

"I don't care so long as it doesn't involve drinking or bothering me. You will have more work in the morning," he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest and watching her until she slowly descended the stairs to the living quarters.

"Having fun with the new recruit?" came Aela's strong voice from behind him, causing him to jump.

"Aela! I didn't hear you there," he said, smiling at the silent huntress. She embodied everything that Vilkas believed a true female warrior should have; Graceful, silent movements that mimicked those of a prowling sabre cat, speed of arm both with a sword and a bow, and, most importantly, a keen eye that could find an enemy's weakness in the few seconds it took to load an arrow or ready a blade. She was a force to be reckoned with during a battle, her movements unhindered by her scant leather armor, taken from the body of a draugr. She fought like a wild beast, but also protected those that were a part of her small pack of shield-siblings no matter the danger. For that and her long family history within the Companions, he respected her and viewed her as family.

"I just got back from doing a little work outside of Riverwood. Sounds like you had an interesting day," she said, her yellow eyes flashing like a laughing wild dog's from under the three horizontal lines of war paint that covered her face.

He couldn't help but smile as he thought of Elsa covered in feces. "What have you heard?"

"Some of the villagers were talking about the Dragonborn being paraded around the city with buckets full of shit," she started with a laugh, her fierce face softening. "Now that is something I would have liked to have seen."

"I'm sorry you missed it, then," he replied, moving towards the table and grabbing a plate full of food. "I'm especially sorry that no one else saw her spill the buckets all down her front," he finished with a mischievous smile.

"She did not!" Aela laughed, her auburn hair glistening in the bouncing light of the fire. Grabbing a leg of meat, she dropped down in the chair next to him and continued to laugh to herself. "I don't suppose there is any way to make her a warrior again, though."

"If she was ever a warrior to begin with," he said quickly through a mouthful of potatoes. "A true warrior wouldn't succumb to a weakness like drink."

Aela shrugged, leaning back in her chair and yawning deeply. "It would have been something to see her ten years ago, fighting a dragon. I've heard people say that it was unlike anything they've ever seen."

"I didn't take you for one to believe tales the village folk tell," he said with a snort, his eyes glancing toward the sound of the door opening and shutting as Skjor returned from his job. "I'm sure Lydia and whoever else she had following her around did most of the fighting."

"What are you talking about?" came Skjor as he marched towards them. He wore armor similar to the rest of the circle, battered steel with little decoration but an ornate carving of the wolf near the neck. He wore the armor it seemed at all times, rarely taking it off. Vilkas had even caught him sleeping in the heavy pieces, his worn face showing nothing but contentment.

"Vilkas was just telling me about our new recruit," Aela said matter-of-factly. "Doesn't seem to think that she ever was much of a warrior. "

Skjor grunted, sitting next to his comrades and taking a long drink from a nearby decanter.

"People are always exaggerating things. If you listened to what they say of Njada you would think that she was a seasoned veteran able to take on a horde of trolls on her own!" Vilkas exclaimed, waving towards the helmeted Nord that sat with the other rookie warriors on the opposite end of the table.

Skjor followed his motion with his eyes, nodding heavily in agreement. There was no denying that the woman had a long journey ahead of her before being considered a veteran. Her arms had yet to gain the hard cut of Aela's and her face was still free of the little scars only gained after years of battle. Even the twins, young as they were by the Circle's standards, had the small marks from magically healed wounds covering their body after years of constantly taking on jobs. It was a matter of pride for Vilkas that his skin was not smooth and unweathered like most his age, finding that the few marks that roughed the skin under his left eye improved his otherwise typical Nord appearance.

"They are still young," Aela answered. "Barely fighting for a few years. The Dragonborn has been fighting in Skyrim at least for the last twelve. I doubt she came away with no skills. I would just like to see what she can do."

"You saw what she can do when I tested her arm," Vilkas answered roughly. "If it were a real battle she would have died in seconds."

"That's her now, yes, but before…" she trailed off, her eyes getting a wistful look. "To see her hunt down a dragon, it would have been something."

"You just are envious of the prey, not the hunter," he replied shortly. "It was probably more luck than anything else."

"It was the shouting," Skjor finally chipped in, lazily scratching his bald scalp. "Never saw her fight, but I was here when she shouted that dragon down at Dragonsreach. It was definitely…powerful in a strange way."

"Shouting down your prey," Aela said, her tone thoughtful as her wild eyes roamed the room. "You have to admit, Vilkas, at the very least that would be something to witness."

"Fine, it would be interesting," he conceded. "But that doesn't mean she was a warrior. Don't forget she's just another drunk that _we_ have to put up with."

"We don't have put up with her," Skjor said with a laugh. "The old man gave you that job!"

Aela laughed with the aging man, their voices rising in a harmonious rumble. Vilkas frowned at his shield-siblings, his voice growing hard as he stood from the table. "It is a dishonor to the Companions to have someone like her in our ranks. It makes us look like nothing more than nannies for the weak."

"Stop being so serious, Vilkas," Aela laughed, making him frown even deeper. "And stop frowning so much, it makes your face look ugly."

"You can keep your jokes, Aela. The Companions mean something to me and I care what happens and how people think of us, even if you don't," he snapped, huffing away from the table despite Aela's calls for him to calm down and come back.

It wasn't until he was out in the training yard behind Jorrvaskr that he let out the frustrated breath that he was holding. His body was tense with unused energy and unheeded urges. It seemed that more and more he could not tolerate the company of others, his temper becoming shorter as the days and weeks passed without listening to the call of his curse.

He took a few quick laps around the small enclosure hoping to wear off some of his frustrations with activity, hoping that the burn of his muscles would drive his anger away. When that didn't work, he slipped out of his armor so that he was only in an old pair of linen breeches, deciding that it was sense of freedom he needed more so than exercise.

Stretching a little, he smiled at the feeling of cool air against the bare skin of his chest, shutting his eyes and taking in the scents of Whiterun. The wind was blowing from the north, carrying with it the smell of snow and the impending chill of Frostfall. He always enjoyed it when the air grew colder; the dryness having its own unique scent that reminded him of a far off time that was just beyond his conscious memory.

Breathing out slowly, he felt a little of the tension that he was carrying drop away, allowing his body to finally relax. Inhaling deeply, he moved past the general smells of the northern wind and focused on those things that were unique to his city. First, there was the smell of the water that ran from the mountain Dragonsreach was cut into. Unlike other streams in Skyrim, the one that flowed through Whiterun didn't carry the scent of algae or wildlife. Instead it was salty and earthy due to the gritty stones the city had been built on top of by Jeek of the River, friend of Ysgramor, captain of the Jorrvaskr, and leader of the Five-Hundred Companions. It was a little bit of history that always amused Vilkas as a child, the entire city of Whiterun being built around both the Skyforge and the sturdy body of the ancient ship that still stood as the home of the Companions.

Jorrvaskr was the scent that he focused on next, letting the ancient mixture of the warriors and all of the things carried on the winds for centuries play at his nose. He was able recognize the smells of wood and sea, mixed with sweat and steel even from miles away if the breeze blew right. It was the comforting smell of home, easing his mind from the more lively smells of Nords and elves, game and prey, and the emotions that all those things had. His sensitive nose was constantly assaulted by fear, lust, joy, heartbreak, angry, despair, and any other number of feelings that would make his blood hot with a need to do _something_. It was part of the curse he had freely accepted and was struggling to deny. It was a constant battle to keep the thing within him from bursting out and reacting to the world around him with the primal simplicity of a beast. If it weren't for the comfort he found in Jorrvaskr and its sturdy smells and ancient strength, Vilkas doubted that burning off energy would be enough to stave off the change, especially in his current mood.

"I curse the day I took the blood," he muttered out to the wind, opening his eyes to see the stars twinkling at him with cold indifference. Sighing deeply, he moved to the edge of the yard and climbed up on the wall that surrounded the city. The world around Whiterun was black under the new moon of Masser while Secunda remained hidden behind clouds so that only a few distant lights from scattered settlements breaking the darkness.

He always disliked the night when it was dark like this. It reminded him of when he was a child and didn't have the heightened sense of smell and hearing that came with his curse. Back in those days, night meant being unable to see potential enemies and huddling against his brother for warmth, praying to the Divines that they would be alive still in the morning. It was a time of fear and uncertainty in their destitution, their family and former lives disappearing so completely that he only had the vaguest recollection of calloused hands, the smell of sweet bread, and cold air.

He had stopped years ago trying to remember what his family name had been or where he and his brother were born. It was no use; the memories of a small child were so fragile that the traumas of their abandonment had wiped his original life from his memories. He had little concept of how long they wandered the wilderness, searching for first their family and then anything that could be food. They were perhaps five, maybe six, with bony ribs and sunken eyes, only stopping in their aimless wandering when the sun had dropped below the mountains, taking its safety of light with it.

Vilkas shut his eyes as let his mind wander to that distant time, recalling the cold and the fear that often was accompanied by Farkas' soft whimpers and hot tears. There were monster that thrived in the dark, their noises cracking and whistling all around them every time the sun set. He wished he could say it was the foolishness of a child's imagination that drove fear in them, but he knew that there were predators in the dark, and it wasn't just beasts. For night was the time that the necromancers came out, looking for a sacrifice to feed to their dark and evil art.

He felt a chill run through him at the memory of flashing knives and black cloaks when a deep, throaty voice cut into his thoughts. "You okay, Vilkas?"

"Fine, Farkas," he answered, popping his eyes open and turning to see his brute of a twin standing below him with a curious look. "Just needed to clear my head."

"Want company?" he asked, climbing up the wall without waiting for an answer.

Vilkas looked at his brother, taking in all the different features Farkas had grown into. He didn't understand why they would be perfect copies of each other in their youth only to have his twin rapidly gain mass and brawn while he only seemed to grow in wits and intellect. He still sometimes wished that he had become as large as his brother, knowing that no one toyed with a man that could swing a greatsword like it were nothing more than a stick.

_Only our eyes and our hair are truly the same anymore_, he thought, turning back out towards the darkness. Still, he couldn't help but smile a little as his mind returned to them as small children, knowing that despite their differences in manhood Farkas was still the softhearted boy that hoped too much and felt too deeply. It was one of the better traits of his brother, even if it meant that he had to work to protect him. _I still am protecting him,_ he thought with a frown as he glanced at his brother's love struck smile.

"Did you see Lydia today, then?" he asked, his brother's grin growing even larger.

"I did," Farkas said slowly, his hands moving from his lap to the cold stones of the wall. "She's worried about Elsa. Wanted to know how she was coping."

"You better have not given her too much hope."

"I told her about what she did. Lydia didn't seem too surprised by any of it."

Vilkas let out a small snort, feeling his mood sour with talk of Elsa and Lydia and what would certainly lead to his brother having a crushed heart.

He let silence fall between them for a long while, each thinking their own thoughts. The wind was growing, numbing his exposed skin and his overactive mind. Sighing he turned back to his brother to see a dark expression in place of the doe-eyed look he had started with.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice holding his worry.

"It was a night like this that they found us," Farkas answered quietly, his voice shaking a little. "I still dream about it, you know."

"I know," he answered, not mentioning the sleepless nights filled with Farkas' frantic cries and thrashing limbs coming from across the hall. _Not that you've forgotten it either,_ he told himself darkly.

"Glad Jergen found us," the large twin mumbled before turning and dropping to the ground. "Want to head in?"

"In a minute," he answered turning back towards the empty sky. Taking one last breath, he let the smells of cold and Jorrvaskr fill his mind, driving the dark thoughts away. Smiling a little as the comfort filled him, he hopped off the ledge and followed his brother into the warm protection of the ancient hall that was him home.


	7. Lydia

**AN: Thank you for all the reviews! Please keep it up :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

"Tell me about your father," Farkas said, grabbing Lydia's hand as they strolled along the bank of the White River, the gurgling noises of its current overtaking the rustling sound of leaves. Only one day had passed since she had brought her thane to Jorrvaskr, giving her an unnatural sense of freedom that she hadn't felt in years.

"Well, he was a guard for Whiterun," she started, pushing a loose piece of her black hair from her eyes. "He always said there was honor in serving a Jarl."

"Is that why you worked at Dragonsreach?" he asked, slowing their pace until they stood on a small embankment that overlooked the frigid water of the river, the small town of Riverwood nearly a mile away from the secluded spot. Dropping down on the cool soil, he motioned for her to sit next to him and take in the view of the wilderness that filled the more mountainous part of Whiterun Hold.

Lydia looked out over the water, feeling the last few warm rays of the sun before the cold months took over. She closed her eyes and let the soft heat play over her skin, warming the simple dress she wore instead of armor. There was no need for the heavy gear as she was on an indefinite vacation from her duties as housecarl, allowing her the luxury to wear normal clothes and take pleasure in normal activities like walking with a good Nord man. It was the best day she could remember for a very long time. For once, she didn't have to worry about her mistress and could focus on the world around her.

Opening her eyes, she sighed at the peace and quiet of the wilderness, the slate colored mountains creating a beautiful backdrop for the greens and yellows of the foliage that grew in thick around the base of the Whiterun Hold's small mountain range. Glancing at her companion, she couldn't help but smile at how small she felt compared to him. Standing up to most Nord men she was barely an inch or two shorter, but with Farkas she only reached his thick, steel-clad shoulders. Even his meaty hands seemed to swallow hers as he held her hand gently in the small space that sat between them. Turning towards him, she took in his square chin that was covered in a layer of black scruff, followed by his broad nose that sloped into thick brows over icy, silver eyes lined in a broad smudge of black war paint. His heavy features that were set over his wide cheeks only seemed to add to the strength that his entire body commanded. The only softening feature to him was his shoulder length black hair that had an almost feminine sheen to it as it fell over his wide forehead like a thick slab of polished ebony.

He was the model of an ideal warrior, despite not having the quickest of wit. Yet he made up for what he lacked with the simple way he had about him that she had come to adore over the years of their acquaintance. He took pleasure in his work and the strength of his arm like every warrior, but he had a sweet side that could find contentment in small things such as the graceful movements of a deer running by or the way the sun sparkled off of water. It was in this simple way filled with soft words and deep looks that he had made her feel beautiful. He didn't care that her thick lips seemed to take up a large portion of her narrow face. Or that her nose grew wider near the bridge after a break had healed poorly. He instead spoke of her almond colored eyes and her dark, shoulder length hair. He caressed the thick patches of skin that lined her hands and marveled at all the small scars that scratched their way up her arms. He spoke of her strength as a warrior and her good family name. There was no hint of disappointment in her boxy shoulders or muscular arms, his own large frame dwarfing her and making her feel like the delicate woman she had never been.

Letting out a deep breath, she leaned into the tall, thickly built Nord and smiled in contentment. She found herself letting her worries leave her, taking with them the heaviness that had sat in her chest for years. It was as if she had been underwater struggling to breathe and finally broke free to the surface, letting cool, crisp air fill her heavy lungs. For just a moment, she could forget Elsa and the last few years of her life and just enjoy the moment of tranquility and freedom.

"Lydia?" Farkas said quietly, his gravely voice rumbling deep in his chest.

"Hmm?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"What?" she asked, opening her eyes. "Oh, well you know why I became a warrior, Farkas. I told you that years ago!"

"You did, but that isn't the same as why you chose to work at Dragonsreach."

Closing her eyes again she thought back to when she gained a commission with Jarl Balgruuf the Greater. Her father had pulled strings to get her the job, but she couldn't quite remember if it was she that had wanted it or if it was his idea. Since it was just the two of them for nearly all of her life her father's opinions had become her own more than she even realized. Honor and duty were values he had taken pride in, teaching her that without either trait a skilled warrior was nothing more than a mercenary. He had been proud of her the day she swore her oath to serve the Jarl and the people of the Hold, following in their family's tradition of service and honor.

Opening her eyes, she faced the large warrior letting his icy, silver eyes pierce into her. "Yes, I suppose it was why I went to work there. He always hoped I would become captain of the guard and I suppose I wanted to make him proud of me."

"Wish I could have met him," he said, giving her a small smile.

"Me too," she answered, letting the silence fall between them again. She hadn't thought about her father for years due to all of her energy going towards her drunken mistress. But as she thought of him she felt the familiar pang of loss in her chest that she had carried since she was seventeen. It had dulled over the last fifteen years, especially with the distractions of dragons, civil war, and her drunken thane to occupy her time. Yet even at thirty-two she still missed her father and was sorry that he was not around to give his blessing to the man she had chosen for a mate.

"Perhaps you shall meet him in Sovngarde," she said softly, getting a dull grunt in reply. She wasn't sure why, but a heavy silence seemed to fall over them as if the talk of death and the afterlife had covered the air around them in a dark fog. She could feel Farkas tense, his palms growing slightly moist. "How is Elsa doing?" she finally asked, breaking the tension between them.

"She's been…difficult," he said hesitantly, his eyes sneaking towards her before shooting back towards the river.

"Difficult how?"

"She hasn't taken too kindly to being at Jorrvaskr or my brother."

"Vilkas?" she asked, her brow wrinkling in confusion. "What does she have against him?"

"He can be…difficult too," Farkas said with a shrug. "Doesn't help that she…" he trailed off, giving her an unsure look. "You don't need to worry about her, Lydia. She's fine."

"What did she do, Farkas?" she asked frantically, worry building in her. "Is she going to be kicked out? I don't know if I could keep my word and not help her if she's thrown out of the city!"

"She's not going to be kicked out," he answered calmly. "I promised you I would make sure she stays safe."

"But what did she do?" Lydia pressed. "You're not telling me something. I need to know, Farkas. She's my responsibility. I swore and oath and I –"

"I know," he interrupted softly, moving his hand to her shoulder and lightly rubbing it. "I know, Lydia. If I tell you will you promise not to worry?"

"Yes, I promise."

Farkas sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Kodlak wanted her arm tested by Vilkas. He likes all the new recruits to cross blades with my brother. Says he has a good eye."

"But what did she do, Farkas?" she pressed, a sense of dread building in her not only for her friend's fate, but her own should Elsa fail. Even though Jarl Vignar had absolved her of her vow, Lydia had been raised to honor her word and she had given it to the Dragonborn thirteen years ago that she would serve her thane and protect her and her property for all her days no matter what that meant for her own personal life.

"Her knee found my brother's jiggly bits."

"No!" she gasped, her hands moving to her face. "Oh no, what did he do?" she asked in a deep groan, knowing enough of Vilkas' temper to only guess.

"I told you I would keep her safe," Farkas answered stoutly. "He tried to shame her by making her take his sword for sharpening."

"Shame her?" she asked her eyes growing wide. "I know Elsa, she doesn't take well to doing menial tasks. She wouldn't have just done that quietly."

"She didn't."

"And?"

"She stuck the sword in Vilkas' bed while he was sleeping," he said quickly, his eyes darting to her, begging for her not to worry.

"_She did what!"_ Lydia yelled, standing up roughly and taking up a quick pace. "Please tell you are joking, Farkas."

"Afraid not."

She groaned, letting her hands rub at her temples as she continued to pace. "How has she not been thrown out? How has Vilkas not killed her?"

"Kodlak," Farkas answered simply, standing and moving towards her. Grabbing her hand, he forced her to stop her anxious movements and look up at his calm face. "Don't worry about this. I said I would watch over her and I will. She is fine."

"Unless she does something while you're gone and Vilkas looses control."

"He won't," he said firmly, his icy eyes locking onto hers reassuring her that he would watch out for the broken Dragonborn. "Let's head back to the inn."

"All right," she answered, allowing the giant of a man take her hand and lead her back the way they had come.

She struggled with a great range of emotions as they walked in silence. Her first reaction was concern for her friend and thane. They had been together since Elsa was sixteen. She had been so fresh to the world of battle and fighting that she was sure that the girl would be dead within a year. Yet, the Dragonborn had surprised her and learned quickly, growing in her skill and her might. They had gone through many things together and had that unique bond of those that bled together. It had been difficult for her to see her friend give in to the drink, but she could understand why. The pain the woman carried was more than she could imagine and had led her down a path of enabling the poisonous habit until Elsa became the worthless drunk that hadn't held a sword in over a year.

_You did the right thing,_ Lydia told herself as the brush began to thin and the plain wooden buildings of Riverwood loomed ahead of them. Clutching Farkas' hand harder, she knew that the only way she could be with him was for Elsa to get better. It filled her with bitterness that her friend stood in the way of her happiness and that it was her oath that bound her to the wretch. As much as she cared for her thane and loved her like a little sister, she resented the last seven years when her drinking became heavier. She resented all of the humiliation she had to suffer due to Dragonborn's antics, having to clean up the woman's messes, and give up on her own chance of happiness just because Elsa had lost hers.

"Are you sure you want to stay at the inn?" Farkas asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

Looking around, she realized that they had reached Riverwood, the sounds of the nearby mill mixing with sounds of a hammer on steel and the hum of voices as the villagers went about their daily business. It was a peaceful little town that made a claim on the banks of the White River, the stone bases of their homes providing protection from the waters when they rose with the thaw, while the thatched roofs and wooden walls were easy to heat in the winter and cool during the warmer summers. It was a small community that lived in peace nestled up against the mountain base, providing her Lydia with a much-needed break from the activity and gossip of Whiterun.

"Yes, at least for a little while. I don't want to be at Breezehome right now."

He nodded, leading her back towards the inn that sat at the far edge of town. It looked just as every other building in the town did, its wooden door having little in the way of decoration or senseless carvings.

"I'll come back tomorrow or the next day," Farkas said as they walked up the few steps to the door, a large smile filling his face.

"I'll be looking forward to it," she smiled back at him, forcing herself to remember the way his eyes sparkled when he grinned so hard that she could nearly see all of his teeth. It was the second thing that had attracted her to him when they had met, the first being his strong arm and broad face.

She could remember their first meeting like it was only a few days ago, rather than the nearly eighteen years it had been. They had both been young and lacking any experience in true battle. In fact, she was barely considered fully-grown when she had taken up her post with Jarl Balgruuf. Her duties consisted of nothing more than a sword to travel with his couriers, but it was a foot in the door to becoming the great warrior she had dreamed of being and fit her level of skill with the sword.

She hadn't been long in the halls of Dragonsreach when Farkas had first come to the hall as a Companion. She had spotted the young Nord immediately, his tall, built frame taking up a large portion of the ornate doorway and demanding the attention of any that stood nearby. She couldn't help but follow his towering frame in intrigued silence as he marched towards the Jarl's steward with the confidence of warrior. He held his head high and his voice rang out in a deep baritone that had sent a small shiver through her. He was everything she pictured a true Nord warrior to be even if his barely marked skin and round face showed his youth. But she didn't judge the massive companion on his age, being little more than fifteen herself at the time. Rather, she had moved from her post by the door to better hear what deeds he had done for the Jarl to make a judgment of the young man.

Lydia could still remember how her skin seemed to prickle with the low rumble of his voice as he told the Jarl's steward that he had taken care of a skeever infestation on the outskirts of the hold. She watched as he took the bounty offered and nodded politely, no sense of arrogance or excessive pride filling his mannerisms. It was then that he turned back towards the entrance of the grand hall, his bright silver-grey eyes catching hers and his lips turning up into a large, opened mouth grin that made his eyes spark and his skin crinkle. She knew right then that he was a man she would be happy to spend her days with. Over the course of years of brief meetings at Dragonsreach and about in Whiterun, she had developed a friendly acquaintance that had blossomed into something more.

Looking at him now, she could still see the kindness in his smile that she had seen then. That was something that years of fighting and battle had not been able to take from him, even if it had left small marks on his skin. Squeezing his hand tightly, she gave him another smile and a longing gaze before breaking away and entering the Sleeping Giant Inn.

As the door clicked shut behind her lover, Lydia let out a small sigh and began to move back to the small room she had rented. The inn was nothing special; the wooden hall being lined by roughly crafted tables and benches where a modest spread of food for travelers and local customers sat waiting. A fire cracked cheerfully in a large stone hearth that sat open in the middle of the room, providing much needed heat when the cool winds from the north whistled through the small cracks in the wooden walls. Beyond the tables and the fire sat a long counter where the inn's merchant, Orgnar, sat scowling at the empty building with his arms crossed over his chest. Nodding politely at the man, she turned into the small doorway just to the left of his counter, shutting the thin door softly behind her.

"Only a day or two until I get to see him again," she sighed to herself as she looked about her little room. It held a small bed, an end table, and a battered looking dresser in which she had safely stored her armor and all the provisions she would need for a few weeks vacation. The narrow walls left little room to move about but she didn't mind the cramped quarters. It was clean and didn't smell of sweat, alcohol, or vomit. She couldn't ask for much else after everything with Elsa.

"At least she hasn't been kicked out," she muttered as she flopped on the bed, sending her thanks to the gods that Kodlak was a patient man. He had seemed genuinely happy to take in the Dragonborn despite her poor reputation when she and Farkas had gone to him. It helped that Jarl Vignar had already spoken the old Harbinger, but she didn't doubt that he would have lent his assistance to them even if that hadn't been the case. She didn't know what it was about the old man that reassured her that Elsa would be well cared for, but there was something in the gentleness of his smile under his thick white beard and the soft tone he took as he asked about the dragon slayer's complex history. There was no sign of judgment on his wrinkled face as she had let her Thane's secrets spill from her mouth. She held nothing back, telling the Harbinger every detail of the life that the Dragonborn was trying to hide from.

_She'll get better,_ she told herself for the hundredth time, trying to drown out the doubt and guilt that lingered under her frustration and bitterness. _You did the right thing and when she is well she will thank you for leaving her._

The thought sat uncomfortably on her mind, Elsa's curses and screams filling her with doubt that her friend would ever forgive her. _She wishes you were dead._ The bitter thought filled her despite her attempts at ignoring it. Closing her eyes, her thane's yells about Blind Cliff Cave clouded her mind. It wasn't an entirely new thought to Lydia nor was the harsh feeling of failure that came with it. She knew that her mistress had had that thought many times over the years, she was able to read it in through the drunken haze that covered her eyes, but she had never said the words aloud. Elsa had never outright spoken the hurtful words that she wished it had Lydia who traveled with her on the fateful day to the Foresworn camp. That she had felt the cold sting of arrows and the sharp bite of a blade rather than –

"Enough of this!" she yelled, cutting off the poisonous thoughts while roughly wiping the few tears that had trickled down her face with the back of her hand. "She was drunk and angry, stop torturing yourself. You did the right thing."

But the thoughts continued to buzz in the back of her mind, demanding that she pay attention to their dark message. Groaning, Lydia laid back on the bed and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to think of Farkas and their day rather than her fears, worries, and hurt over Elsa.


	8. Bets and the Vigil

**AN: Thank you to all of you that have been reading and especially to those that have reviewed! I don't often address people in an authors note since I like to PM, but since a few of you I can't do that with here goes a few shout outs:**

DualKatanas/gunhilde: thanks for the catches on some of the technical things. You both rock!

Everyonesgonecrazy: Yes...I'm glad you guessed!

Mupp3tbab3h/MireliAmbar/anomynous: Thank you for your continued reviews! I'm glad you all have stuck with the story and I hope you continue to do so!

**This will mark the first chapter where you will start seeing more characters outside of the Companions and is also considerably longer than the rest…please let me know what you think! It is gratifying to hear a reader's perspective, whether good or bad!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

Elsa stumbled away from Vilkas with the night buckets and clumsily made her way down the wooden stairs of Jorrvaskr. She nearly fell on her face as she flung herself into the spacious stone hall, her shaking legs and sense of vertigo making it difficult to have anything resembling steady movements. From inside one of the pails, the mudcrab made angry clicking noises after being tossed around, but she ignored it as the stone walls whirled around her. Sinking to the floor, she attempted to focus on one particularly dark stone to ward off the continued waves of motion of the world around her, but it didn't seem to help. The room continued to move and tumble about her and her head felt as though it was rolling with it.

She closed her eyes with a pitiful moan only to have the spinning motions make it feel as though she were tumbling through the air with nothing to support her. Bile rose up in her throat as her stomach churned uneasily, only adding to the pounding of her bruised head and aching side while her muscles continued to jerk uncomfortably.

"Just work," she mumbled, bringing her hands to her head, wishing that the little amount of liquor given to her by that Torvar fellow would kick in. Had she not been in such a state of withdrawal when she met him she would have found it funny that the Companions had already accepted a drunk into their ranks, making Vilkas' comments about her being a disgrace to the group rather silly and unfounded. Unfortunately, her body was already well beyond the point of just shaking when the blonde bearded man had approached her, drinks in hand. She barely had time to notice his tanned, weathered face or his hazy blue eyes that popped out from ruddy cheeks before her eyes focused in on his calloused hands and the precious liquid they were holding.

Still, even with that alcohol she knew that she was in for a rough night. It wasn't to the point that she was hallucinating or collapsing on the floor in a fit of uncontrollable twitches that had plagued her the one time she had truly went through a full withdrawal, but it still felt horrible. "That ale will get you through the night," she mumbled to herself as she pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes to distract her from the pain the rest of her body felt. "You will find more in the morning. You will be all right."

Another wave of nausea rolled through her, pain searing her side and head as she retched, her mouth remaining firmly clamped so that she could swallow any of the liquid that came up. As the feeling passed she moaned again, opening her eyes to see the blurry outline of the rows of bookshelves that lined the little alcove by the stairs and the food-covered round table that sat near it. Her stomach churned again, reminding her that not only did she not have even a fraction of her normal consumption of ale, but she also had not eaten anything solid for longer than she could remember.

_Ale_, she thought briefly as she looked up at the table. _Maybe there is ale._ Groaning as pain ripped through her body, she slowly pulled herself up to a nearby wooden chair, her muscles fighting her every movement. Her effort was rewarded by one half drunk bottle of mead that had been left out on the table along with someone's unfinished dinner. Greedily, she snatched up the bottle, barely noticing her flailing motions disturbing the buckets that still sat on ground near her as she drank down the sweet liquid. The mudcrab let out more angry noises at the rough motions, its hard little legs scrapping at the wood of the bucket as it tried to find an escape. Elsa looked down at it and frowned as it scuttled around in a panic. "Sorry," she mumbled, sticking her hand in the bucket only to feel the sharp pinch of its claws biting into the skin of her finger.

She let out a sharp yelp, shaking her hand wildly until the creature let her go. "You hate me too, now?" she spat at the tiny crab, her eyes narrowing as the world jerked and spun around her.

The mudcrab made a high pitched squealing noise as it moved to the edge of the bucket, attempting to escape its small prison. Elsa felt her heart drop at the creature's frantic movements, taking its wild instincts as a personal affront. "Fine, you want to be free, then just go. Leave me like everyone else does!" she snapped, tipping the bucket over on the table, sending the tiny mudcrab rolling onto the wooden surface.

It clicked and snapped its claws at her nearby arm, which she withdrew from its small reach as quickly as her body could manage. "You're just as bad as the rest of them," she hissed at the crustacean, glaring at its slow movements towards some leftover meat and potatoes.

The little creature's rejection only added to how horrible she was already feeling. Tears began to rise up in her eyes as she continued to focus on the crab, trying her best to ignore the waves of color and shapes that swam around her as the room continued to spin. She had already been thrown away by most of the Holds she had once been a champion for, her actions and debts removing any sense of gratitude from the Jarls. Then, she had slowly lost her homes and her money, leaving only the small house in Whiterun for her to drown her memories away in. Still, she hadn't thought things were that bad until her only friend and the one person she trusted more than anyone spat in her face and left her to rot in Jorrvaskr. _And now even a mudcrab can't stand to be with me_, she thought as a few tears escaped her bloodshot eyes.

"Fuck her and the rest of them," she muttered angrily, pulling her hands through her hair as another wave of nausea swept through her. She clamped her eyes shut wishing for it all to just end, the withdrawal, Lydia's banishment, _everything_, so long as the pain, both physical and emotional, just stopped.

From behind the haze that clouded her mind, she could hear heavy boots coming down the wooden stairs, making her already throbbing skull ache with the noise. The door burst open, making her eyes go white with pain at the thunderous noise made by whoever entered the room. Groaning, she leaned down on the table, ignoring the angry clicks of the mudcrab from where it was contentedly feasting.

"Dragonborn," came the deep, throaty voice of the Companion she recalled was named Aela. Looking up, she forced herself to focus and take in woman's intense appearance. Her auburn hair fell just below her shoulders and had a luster to it that even the dim lighting of the hall couldn't hide. Her tanned skin seemed to glow with the sun it had trapped, making the three diagonal stripes of dark war paint that ran from the right side of her forehead to the opposite side of her chin stand out like a taunt to any beast that would try to maul her. From under her paint, a set of striking yellow eyes started at her intently, their fierce look reminding Elsa more of a hawk's predatory look rather than a woman's curious glance. Letting her eyes slowly drift down, she took in the woman's strong, square jaw that sat on a lean neck and narrow shoulders. Her slender but muscular frame moving freely under the two leather strips that only managed to cover her full chest with the help of three ornate pieces of steel. Even the skirt of her armor was little more than a small bit of chainmail covered in a thin scrap of leather, attached by two steel plates that guarded her hips. Everything about the woman spoke of power, agility, and danger. Elsa briefly wondered if she was even human, her looks being anything but tamed and domesticated.

Feeling the woman's gaze continue to search her, she finally broke the small silence that had fallen with a small moan. "Aela, right?"

"That is right," the warrior said. "It's a shame you no longer fight. I heard about many of your battles years ago."

A small snort filled with disgust rang out from behind the fierce Companion, causing Elsa to lift herself fully to see who else was there. She recognized him as the bald man that she had seen the day she was brought to Jorrvaskr after Vilkas had attacked her in his room, but she had yet to learn his name. She looked at him briefly, taking in his perfectly oval head that was dotted with small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and near his mouth. He too had war paint, but it was more subdued than Aela's, consisting only of two red lines under each of his brown eyes, the left having a curving scar underneath it that ran nearly to his mouth.

Though he was definitely no longer young, he was far from being what she considered old as he was still able wear thick steel armor with massive bracers and heavy boots without any signs of the weariness or fatigue that would mark him as nearing the end of his career as a warrior. Near the neck of his steel-plated cuirass was an ornate wolf emblem similar to what she had seen on both Vilkas and Farkas' armor. She assumed it marked them as part of the elite group that she heard Vilkas refer to as the Circle. She didn't really know much about the hierarchy within the Companions, nor did she care to, but she did note that only those with private rooms were those that were a part of the elusive Circle. Instantly, she resented both of the Companions standing before her for their nightly bathroom activity that had contribution to her humiliation earlier that day.

"Do you have something to say, baldy?" she grumbled at his impatient noises. With the pain that was currently shooting through her body as it tried to adjust the extremely small amounts of alcohol it received the last thing she wanted was idle chat.

"She has a mouth on her," the man said darkly, the metal of his armor clanging as he crossed his arms in front of his large chest.

Aela threw the man a quick look before turning back to Elsa. "Don't mind Skjor. He thinks I'm being a fool, but I don't think you're washed up just yet."

"Thanks," she answered dryly, letting her head sink back towards the table, not even caring that the little mudcrab, having finished its feast, was scuttling up her arm.

"You see, I think - is that a mudcrab?" the fierce woman asked, a hint of amusement in her voice as she noticed the little creature nearing Elsa's shoulder.

"His name is Bato," she answered quickly, blindly reaching around the table until her hand felt the little crab, snatching it up despite its angry clicks.

"It has a name?"

"Of course it does. Don't you Bato," she said darkly as the crab's still soft claws nipped at her hand, drawing a little blood.

"What kind of name is Bato?" Aela pressed, her mouth moving into an amused smile.

"It's the name of a fat, stupid Nord that took bets at the Arena in the Imperial City. And Bato here is a stupid little mudcrab that would rather eat food than be a good pet," she said roughly, squeezing her hand around the crab and holding it protectively to her chest. "Now what do you want? Did Vilkas send you so I could wipe his ass for him or clean the shit off the bottom of his boots?"

Aela let out a long laugh, her head thrown back in a way that made the drunken Nord think of a wild dog calling out to the moons. "I like her," the warrior said to the man before turning back towards the Dragonborn. "Actually, I came here since I made a bet with Skjor. I think the stories I heard about you were true while he does not."

"I most certainly do not," Skjor chipped in, his arms still crossed in front of him as he gave Aela an impatient glare.

"Fuck both of you," Elsa said nastily, her headache doing little to blunt her words. "I don't give a shit about what either of you think!"

"Will you shut up for a minute and listen?" Aela said sternly, her hands moving to her hips. "I have a lot of money riding on that you can be made into a warrior again. So tell me now, do you have any intention of training again? Or are you as worthless as Vilkas says you are?"

"I am _not worthless_," Elsa spat standing up on wobbling legs, so that she could glare down at the slightly shorter Nord. She felt her chest rising and falling rapidly as her anger grew beyond the pain she was feeling.

"Good," the fierce woman said, her darkly stained lips curving into a satisfied smile. "Then Skjor will get Vilkas off of your back for a while so you can start training."

"Not that it will matter," the man grumbled before walking away. "I'm going to win this bet."

Aela shot him a competitive look before turning back to the confused Dragonborn. "Be a good shield-sister, will you, and don't let me down," she said with a small snort before stalking after the man, entering the set of rooms on the far right of the long, stone hall.

"What in Oblivion just happened?" Elsa whispered to herself as she stared down the open hall. The little mudcrab made a shrill squeak in her hand as it fidgeted against her chest. Opening her palm, she looked down at the creature and shook her head. "I'm just as confused as you are, Bato."

Ignoring the buckets that she had yet to put away, she slowly stumbled her way towards the open doorway just to her right and fell into one of the many open beds that occupied the room. Laying back, she closed her eyes and let the sense of spinning overtake her, deciding that for now it was better to ignore the strange conversation with the warrior-woman and focus on more important things, like not going into a complete withdrawal and trying to sleep.

For a long time the world just rocked around her, the darkness of the room giving her little to focus on to try to stabilize herself. It was almost a comfort to feel the mudcrab struggle against her loose hold, its still somewhat soft claws nipping at her skin. The sharp little pains helped her to ignore what has happening with the rest of her body and made her feel not so alone. Eventually, things began to calm as the little bit of liquor worked through her system. Slowly, she felt her tear-filled eyes grow heavy until they fell shut and the darkness took her.

* * *

><p>Vilkas had found his bed that night well after the rest of the hall had fallen silent into sleep. After following his brother back into the great overturned ship he found that not only had Elsa <em>not <em>put away the buckets as he had told her, but she was snoring loudly from where she had passed out in the new recruits' room. He felt his teeth clench and his jaw ache at the thought of her dishonorable presence in _his_ home. The feeling only grew after entering his room and seeing it still in a state of disarray.

"Kodlak has lost his mind," he mumbled bitterly as he finally began to pick up the mess from the night before when she had stabbed his sword into his bed. _At least I can make her life miserable_, he thought, cheering somewhat with the memory of her bruised face covered in brown sludge that dripped down her front onto her bare feet. With a small smile on his face at the image of Elsa, he quickly began to pick up his things, taking special care with the alchemy ingredients that he had meticulously collected.

Alchemy, like his interest in the Dwemer, was one of his many intellectual hobbies that he spent hours studying. Despite having no aptitude for spells or enchantments himself, he found the mixing of simple ingredients to create something as powerful as a poison or as wondrous as a healing potion to be absolutely fascinating. For years he had poured over books and made his own notes on the properties of different ingredients and how they would interact with one another. Like figuring out how the automatons of the long dead Dwemer worked, alchemy was another puzzle that exercised his mind after days on end of doing nothing more than using his arm to solve problems.

_That bitch is lucky she didn't destroy anything_, he thought bitterly as he finished putting away the last of his books. "Good enough," he proclaimed as he surveyed the tidy little room, his eyes taking inventory of his modest collection of scholarly texts that lined a tall shelf, his bowls of neatly organized ingredients, and various trophies he had kept from his years of traveling Skyrim as a Companion. Everything in his room spoke of his life as an intellectual surviving as a hired sword.

Feeling satisfied that things were once more in their places, he quickly extinguished the few candles that lined his room and crawled into bed. It was much later than he normally stayed up when he wasn't on a job, leaving his body to feel heavy and tired as it finally relaxed. His lids slowly slid down over his eyes as he cleared his mind of any lingering thoughts, a sense of comfort and peace filling him.

Opening his eyes again he discovered that he was running, the cold wind licking his bare skin and flying through his dark hair. His body, uninhibited by armor or weapons, felt light and free as his feet barely touched the hard ground of Whiterun Hold. Looking around, he grinned at the eerie glow the moons cast on the quiet winter landscape, the soft silver light making everything look more alive and beautiful than it did in the harsh rays of the sun. Smiling, he let his feet carry him across the silent countryside, not at all concerned where he was going.

Suddenly a thick forest appeared before him, a thin path cutting its way between the ancient looking trunks of high-branched firs. His heart pulsed as he slowed his pace and let his feet linger on the cool spines of the fallen needles, the smell of winter and sweet sap filling his heaving lungs. He let his fingers lightly trail across the rough bark covered with yellow lichen as he moved through the silver shadowed forest, taking in the ghostly shapes of foxes and hares moving about the needle-covered floor.

In the distance, he could make out a clearing where the pearly glow of moonlight danced about the slightly swaying limbs of the trees. He slowly made his way towards it, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. There was something in small glen that was calling for him, drawing him in towards the comforting light. With each step the wind somehow grew louder in his ears, the animals more wild and numerous as their strange, glowing forms began to cross the thin path he traveled. From over head an owl sang out its mournful song before flying over his head with a strong thump of its wings. He watched as it disappeared into the sudden blackness between the trees, the only light coming from the clearing that was only a few paces ahead.

The blood began to pound in his ears while a cacophony of bird calls and animal screeches rang out from all sides of him, the sharp needles from the branches that hung over his head raining down and stabbing into his head and shoulders until tiny red drops began to escape his pale skin. He felt his stomach turn and an urgency fill him as everything seemed to move in around him, his feet moving into a quick sprint towards the welcoming light that was just ahead of him.

The noises around him grew louder and more frantic as the darkness tried to surround him, but with a giant push of energy he broke free from the forest and stumbled into the small clearing, the world becoming suddenly still and quiet. Looking around he felt a strange peace fill him, the moons shining brightly down onto the soft grass that filled the clearing. His heart calmed and his breathing became regular as he sank to the dew covered ground, the small drops of water clinging to his bare skin. He closed his eyes and let the coolness of the world around him tickle his warm body.

"Vilkas," a voice suddenly rang out, causing him to open his eyes. The moons were gone, leaving a deep darkness surrounding him. Nothing seemed to stir but the small breeze that managed to break through the thick growth of the monstrous firs. Sitting up, he looked around him, letting his eyes become accustomed to the darkness, searching for the person that spoke to him.

"Vilkas!" the voice called again, this time with such urgency that he felt his heart skip in his chest.

"Where are you?" he called out into the darkness, standing and turning a slow circle. He could see nothing but trees and shadows in the darkness, but it didn't matter. He needed to find that voice.

Moving towards the forest, he let his feet carry him into the darkness, blindly moving over the bed of fallen needles and around the massive trunks of trees as the voice continued to echo around him, calling his name.

"I'm coming!" he shouted, letting his instinct carry him to where the voice would be. He ran with all his speed deeper into the forest and the shadows, ignoring the calls of the other animals as he focused in on the desperate and demanding voice until, suddenly, a cave appeared before him, causing him to stop.

"Vilkas!" the voice called out again, the deep rumble echoing through the utter blackness of the cave. He hesitated, the hairs on his neck standing up in warning as the world became unnaturally silent. Not even the wind was moving, the trees becoming completely still as he stood in front of the cave. Something was not right about it, but he couldn't tell what. Cautiously, he moved forward, his body tense and waiting for an attack. With each step he felt his chest tighten and an overwhelming urge to flee fill him but he continued forward until he stood in the cave entrance, listening and waiting for a sign.

"Vilkas," the voice whispered, urging him forward. Hesitantly he lifted his foot and slowly brought it down only to have the sickening feeling of nothingness jerk through his body as he plummeted down a hole. The dropping sensation only lasted a second, but it was long enough for his heart to beat wildly and a surge of adrenaline to fill his veins. A sweat broke out on his face as he hit the ground, the world washing away for a moment before materializing once more in front of him.

"Where am I?" he wondered aloud as he stood, looking around but seeing nothing but blackness and stony walls. The hole was not that wide, taking only a minute to make a complete revolution. Walking around slowly, he let his fingers trail along the moist walls, feeling the mushrooms that grew there bend with his motion. It was on his third revolution that the light suddenly appeared behind him, filling his body with a strange longing and desire.

"Vilkas," the voice said quietly from behind him, the tone accusing. Still, he felt drawn to the speaker, his entire body yearning to see it. Turning, the light flared in his eyes, his hands moving impulsively to shield his face as he blinked away the strange floating objects that obstructed his vision.

The light seemed to dim as he rubbed at his eyes and cautiously peeked around the protection of his hand to see its source. "No," he whispered as he faced a pair of intense silver eyes that glowed at him from behind a wolfish face.

"Vilkas," the wolf said again, standing up from where it sat so that its head nearly reached his own. The beast was thick and muscular under its fine coat of glowing white hair. Its ears sat up straight in alert attention as it tracked his hesitant movements with its eyes. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch it, to feel the ghostly fur with his own hands and bond with the massive creature.

Reaching forward he moved towards the creature only to stop suddenly as a small sense of foreboding filled him. _Don't do this,_ a tiny voice in his head rang out, keeping his hand lingering in the air above the wolf. _Resist!_

The wolf seemed to sense his uncertainty and began to shine brighter. Again, the urge to touch the creature filled him, fighting with the commanding voice that was screaming out from the depths of his mind. He remained still in his battle between the two equally compelling feelings, his heart yearning for one while his mind begged for the other.

"Vilkas," the ghostly wolf called out, its silver eyes never blinking as it urged him forward. "Vilkas!"

"Vilkas." A heavy hand shook his shoulder roughly, pulling him from his dream. "Vilkas, get up, we have to go," Skjor's rough voice rang out in the darkness of his windowless room.

He jolted upright with a loud gasp, a cold sweat on his brow run down his face. His blankets were tangled around his body and his heart beat wildly against the confines of his ribs. It took a moment for him to make sense of things and place himself in his room and in his bed. _It was a dream_, he thought with a sense of relief. _It was only a dream_.

"Are you up yet?" Skjor called again, his heavy armor clanging softly as the older man moved towards the door. "Get dressed and meet me upstairs."

"What?" he called out after his friend, only to find that he was already gone. Confusion again filled him as he quickly began to dress. It wasn't odd for him to be woken in the middle of the night with the instructions to dress for a job, but that didn't do much to add normalcy to his shaken consciousness as he tried to push away the lingering feelings from his dream. His heart still ached and his body yearned to be near the wolf again, but his mind resolutely screamed out _no_.

"That was no dream," he muttered to himself as he pulled on his steel boots and clasped his ornate Skyforge greatsword to his back. He had not felt the conflict between the beast he housed and his mind since the past Heartfire when he had swore to Kodlak that he would give up changing and seek out a cure to their curse. In the year following, it had only been a struggle to keep his word those first few weeks and then in the heat of battle. He had found that with increased emotion, especially anger and rage, the beast became stronger and louder in its calling to be released from his weak human form so that it could sink its teeth and claws into enemies and taste their blood. Yet he had managed to contain the desire and ignore the beast's call through focus and control, keeping the urge to a small tingle in the back of his mind on most days. This made the sudden forceful urge that filled him all the more unsettling and confusing.

Leaving his room silently, he gave his brother's closed door a quick push and popped his head inside. He never felt comfortable leaving the safety of Jorrvaskr without saying a quick farewell to his twin, but the need was even greater after such a nightmare. "Farkas?" he called out softly, getting a rough grunt in response. "I'm off for a while."

The sounds of groaning wood filled the room as Farkas rolled in his small bed. "Don't die," he said in a raspy voice before throwing his blankets back over his face and falling back asleep.

Vilkas watched his brother's breathing return to normal rhythms for a moment before quietly shutting his door and making his way towards the stairs. He could still hear the irregular snores coming from the whelp quarters, marking Elsa as still sleeping off however many drinks she had managed to consume. He frowned slightly at the horrendous noise, wondering how the others that shared a room managed to sleep.

Walking up to the mead hall, he found Skjor pacing impatiently by the door, his face in its habitual thin-lipped scowl. "What is it that we're doing?" he called out to the older warrior, tightening the straps of his armor.

"One of my contacts gave our name to a man in Morthal. Thonnir I think it is."

"Morthal?" Vilkas frowned. "That will make this more than a day's job."

"Is that a problem?" Skjor snapped, his reddened eyes showing his lack of sleep, which never did much for fortifying the little bit of patience the older Nord had.

"Kodlak expects me to work the new recruit," he answered darkly, his mouth falling into a frown with the prospect of missing out on real work to babysit the drunken woman.

"And that's why you are going," Skjor said roughly, moving towards the door. "Let Aela and Farkas deal with her for a few days."

"I don't know, Skjor. I gave my word…" he trailed off, his mind once more standing in the way of his desires. "Why not take Farkas instead?"

"Because we'll be dealing with a cave full of vampires and I don't need him thundering about," The bald Nord replied, opening the door to reveal a still dark sky. "Now let's go."

Vilkas stood in the hall for a moment, indecision pulling him in two different directions. He wanted to honor Kodlak's wishes, but in the Companions no man controlled another. He could leave if he truly wanted to, but it didn't ease his sense of guilt over abandoning his duties to another while he fought vampires. "Skjor, I can't," he finally said, ignoring the frustrated look the man was giving him. "I have a duty that I swore I would do."

"I have already talked to Aela. She _wants_ to train with the Dragonborn for a few days, Vilkas," he said darkly. "Now I need you on this, so let's go."

_Aela wants to work with Elsa?_ he thought in disbelief as he moved to follow the older man out into Whiterun. It seemed strange that she would volunteer for such a job rather than travel with her longtime friend to Morthal. "Why does she want to work with that drunk, anyways?" he finally asked as they quickly moved through the empty streets and out of the city gates.

"You heard her last night," Skjor answered in a quick grunt before starting up an easy jog. "She wants to see what someone with that wench's reputation can do. Waste of time if you ask me, but she seems to think anyone who once was a warrior is like her and has the blood of a fighter in their veins."

Trotting behind the older man, he breathed in the cool fresh air of the quickly coming cold. A layer of frost still covered the ground, crunching under their feet as they moved. "Not likely," Vilkas snorted, letting his muscles warm to the movement as they moved about the well-traveled paths of the Whiterun plains. It felt good to be out in the fresh, open air, letting the breeze tickle his face and move through his hair. For a moment, he felt some of his concern over leaving lift from his shoulders, only to be quickly replaced with a feeling of déjà vu as his dream returned to the forefront of his mind. A sudden tightness rose in his chest as he felt his blood warm and urge him to change and feel the silent world as a beast rather than a man.

"I hope you're ready for this job," the older man called out, providing a much needed distraction from the uncomfortable battle that he was fighting within himself. "From what I know, these vampires are fairly well established in this cave. We don't want them to be tipped off by doing anything clumsy."

"I'm not Farkas," he replied easily, knowing that though the older man he had always viewed as an uncle preferred the heavy strength and brute force of his brother, but for certain jobs he needed someone with a little more delicacy. It was then that he would approach Vilkas, knowing that the smaller twin favored good tactics, assessing every situation with a sharp eye, and using the advantage of stealth when needed. Farkas was never one to move quietly, his method being more of a quick blitz and direct attacks. It was no wonder that Skjor had rejected the idea of taking the larger twin along as a shield-brother to a den of vampires.

"No, you aren't," the older warrior replied, letting a silence fall between them as they continued to run. The landscape did little to change as the sky began to lighten and the first rays of the sun could be seen. The long brown and yellow grass that covered the rolling hills of Jarl Vignar's hold provided little to look at and even less for cover from potential bandit attacks. Yet with their early hour, it was no surprise that they had met no one on the road. Not even the wildlife was stirring until the sky finally grew to a violent pink and orange of dawn.

Looking over at his companion he drowned out the calls of his wolf blood by focusing on how the years had changed the man since he and his brother had first arrived at Jorrvaskr. All those years ago, when he was but a child freshly rescued by Jergen, Skjor already was battle-marked with a thin scar that ran from his just beneath his left eye in towards his mouth. He had been bald then, as he was now, but it had taken the expert use of a blade those twenty odd years ago to achieve such a state. Now that he was somewhere in his fifth decade, the older warrior had to do little to maintain the hairless state that he preferred.

"Let's stop for breakfast," the older man called out, breaking into Vilkas' thoughts. "I packed some bread."

He did as his companion said and slowed his pace until stopping near a small gathering of smooth boulders. Taking a seat on one of them, he happily began to bite at the small loaf of bread the older man offered him. _This is what you needed,_ he told himself, the wolf blood in him quieting somewhat and his frustrations over his burden at Jorrvaskr fading. It felt good to be free from the burden of Elsa Fire-Storm, even if the job would only give him a few days reprieve. She was a disgrace and was a danger to those around her. After seeing her destruction in the two short days she had been with them, including threatening his manhood twice, destroying his room, and keeping him from doing _anything_ productive, he could only wonder how Lydia had survived years with the woman. It was a testament to the housecarl's strength and patience, to be sure.

_Just be thankful that Aela wants to babysit her for a few days,_ he told himself as he finished his small loaf of bread, brushing away the crumbs as he stood. Skjor gave him a quick look and shoved the last bit of his loaf in his mouth before joining the younger companion, motioning that they should continue west and curve with the small line of mountains that separated Hjaalmarch from the southern Holds. He nodded his understanding and started off at a strenuous jog maintained by the mystical properties of his cursed blood as the sun began to rise higher in the sky.

"Tell me of this Thonnir and how he came to find a vampire lair," he called up to his shield-brother as they continued their steady pace through the wilderness. It seemed odd that a lone man would contact them about such a dangerous problem rather than the request coming directly from the Jarl. Besides that, he couldn't help but feel that the entire situation was odd, considering that the marshy region of Hjaalmarch had little to provide in the way of food for a group of bloodthirsty monsters. The small population of Morthal may attract one or two, but a whole cave full seemed out of place in an area that was so sparse of people.

"He's a Nord miller," the older Companion started, his brown eyes sparkling with the exertion of their job. "Lost his wife nearly a decade ago to a horde of vampires that lived in the cave. Was told he cleared them out and ever since then he's kept watch on their lair in case any returned."

"And how did he know to contact you?"

"Same way they all do," he answered with a grunt. "When you've been doing this as long as I have people have a way of finding you when it comes to things of an _unusual_ nature."

Vilkas fell silent, accepting that the older man liked to keep his ways of gathering information private. It didn't really matter where the jobs came from as long as they were honorable enough and had plenty of coin to back them to make it worth the Companions' time and sweat. Vampires were as good a reason as any to make the journey northwest to the lonely marshes of Morthal, even if it wasn't the most common or logical place for the creatures to be gathering.

The sun soon rose high in the sky only to begin its slow journey west as they pressed on, only stopping for a few minutes occasionally to drink from a stream or adjust their gear. It was clear to Vilkas that Skjor intended on continuing until dark, his pace quickening as the day passed in a push to make it to the small inn that Hjaalmarch's capital by nightfall. As if sensing his shield-brother's observations, Skjor gave him a quick look and shook his head. "This would be a lot faster if you didn't promise the old man that you wouldn't change," he complained, the crow's feet the lined his eyes growing deeper as he squinted back at him. "We would be there by now."

"We've talked about this already. I'm with Kodlak to not give into the blood and to find a cure," he answered, frowning at the continued disagreement over their curse that had divided the Circle's members for over a year. "We are Nords and are meant to go to Sovngarde, not to be the plaything for some Daedra."

"Sovngarde," the older man said, shaking his head. "It's nothing more than an overcrowded Jorrvaskr. Why anyone would prefer _that_ over the freedom of an open field and ample prey… " he trailed of wistfully. "To run for all eternity in a pack, now that is what _we_ are meant to do. We are hunters of beasts and men, not duty-bound soldiers, Vilkas. You don't yet seem to understand that."

"Peace, Skjor. We have all made our choice. You asked me on this job, not Aela, and I will not change just to get to Morthal faster."

"There will be a time when you will break your oath and realize how much you miss the feel of the blood rushing in your veins, the power in your muscles, the sensations…" he trailed off, his face getting a longing look. "Mark my words, you will change someday and you will see everything that you have been missing. The wolf blood is part of you and it will eventually win."

_If only you knew,_ he thought to himself as silence drifted around them, the memory of his dream still lingering in his mind. It made him uneasy on how quickly the pull of his curse had come to him, making his body yearn for the stretching of his limbs and shifting of bones to morph into the powerful wolf. Had Skjor not woken him when he did, he could only imagine the hold his blood would have had over him.

Shuddering slightly, he picked up his pace and let the numb ache of his muscles occupy his mind rather than the disturbing nature of something as fickle as a dream. He let his eyes wander over the open plains, taking in the small changes in the landscape as they moved beyond the mountains. Even without taking his wolf form, his cursed blood gave him a few advantages such as increased strength and stamina, along with being more sensitive to his surroundings. Before he could even see the changes in the countryside as they crossed out of Whiterun's open fields, he could smell the boggy change in the soil and the fresh aroma of pines and firs in the air that marked the marshy region of Hjaalmarch.

It had been some time since he had traveled to the lonely region, but little had changed since his last visit. The region was still covered in untamed wilderness as no one attempted to carve out a living in the wild land. Only the animals, many unique to the region, inhabited the cold bogs and marshes that dotted the Hold. The high-pitched songs emitted by the little white-tailed lapwings that made their nests in the brush near the marshes replaced the quiet movements of the corncrakes and partridges that dominated the plains of Whiterun and the Reach. Foxes seemed to be more abundant in the shelter of the tall trees and thick brush, feeding off the wild hares and mice that made their homes in the shadows of the nearby mountains while small herds of elk gracefully ambled by in the distance.

Hjaalmarch was a Hold filled with life, even if it provided few unique resources to draw in men and mer. _Probably why it stayed so wild, _Vilkas mused as the small town of Morthal appeared in the horizon as the sun started to sink below the horizon. They had made good time to reach the secluded place in only a day. It was a feat that would not have been possible had they been ordinary men trotting across the countryside weighed down by heavy armor and blades. But as it were, they had the benefit of superior strength and stamina granted to them even as men by Hircine's curse. It was a useful thing, as much as Vilkas hated to admit it.

Entering the small city, a peaceful quiet filled the air as the shopkeepers slowly began locking up their businesses and making their way to the inn for a meal and some mead. Happy to gaze lazily at Morthal and her typical Nordic citizens, he let Skjor lead them around the maze of wooden planks covering the small waterway that the sturdy wooden buildings of the city circled around. He found something pleasing in the simple design of the multi-leveled homes and stores; their thatched roofs giving a warm feel to the dark wood that supported them.

Making their way to the far edge of town where the mill was located, the older Companion slowed his pace as he approached a sweat-covered man busy finishing his day's work. The lumberjack looked like most other Nords except that he had brown-red hair and oddly green eyes that seemed to glare out from his narrow eyes that sat close to his wide nose. It was clear that he was a strong man due to his trade as a lumberjack, his built torso pushing tightly against his green shirt.

"Are you Thonnir?" Skjor asked, his voice a wheezy rasp after a full day of running in the cold air.

"Aye," he said slowly, standing from where he was stooped over a massive log. "Who wants to know?"

Vilkas watched him as his eyes shifted between the two Companions, assessing them as both men and warriors. It was clear that green-eyed Nord judged them as potential threats as he slowly lowered his hand to the hilt of his war axe. "We are Companions," he answered quickly, keeping his eyes on the man's movement towards his weapon. He could draw his massive sword in a matter of seconds, but Thonnir's small axe would be in the his hands much quicker should he decide that the two Companions were not friendly. It would be a matter of accuracy and strength at that point to see if the man could use the advantage his lightweight weapon gave him, both of which the burly Nord seemed quite capable of.

Thankfully, the lumberjack seemed to relax after hearing who they were, his hand drifting back to his side and a small smile crossing his face. "Talos be thanked that you have come," he started, his green eyes showing his gratitude. "The vampires are getting bold. I saw two near the mouth of the cave only yesterday."

"Have they attacked anyone?" Skjor asked, his narrow face appearing even angrier than usual.

"Not as of yet, but it is only a matter of time. The last time they came around was only two years after the death of my Laelette. There was only one then and I was able to handle it. This time there seems to be more of them. It was too risky to go in alone," he explained to them, quickly picking up his tools and leading them away from the mill.

"And it was vampires that killed your wife?" Vilkas asked, his sense of caution requiring that he check the man's story out prior to walking into a potential deathtrap filled with vampires.

"She was," he answered stiffly as he brought them to nearly the opposite end of town where the inn sat nestled in by large pine trees that dotted the marshy area. "It will be ten years this Evening Star," he finished, giving him a deep, sorrowful look before opening the door and entering the inn.

Immediately a wave of warmth hit them from the large fire that burned in a hearth in the center of the wood and stone room. Like most public houses in Skyrim, Moorside Inn seemed to be model after a simple and efficient design. It had tables lining the walls that surrounded a large fire that acted to not only cook food but warm the entire building to a comfortable temperature. At the far end of the public hall sat a lone counter where a Redguard woman sat, taking care of her local customers by keeping their mugs wet with drink and their bellies full with a warm meal.

"Three ales and whatever soup you have, Jonna!" Thonnir called over to the dark-skinned publican, directing their party to an empty table in the corner so they could speak business.

"Did you take care of the vampires that killed your wife?" Vilkas asked as they sat on the rough benches, his silver eyes watching the woodsman for any signs that something was amiss about his story and, therefore, the job.

"You don't need to be interrogating our employer," Skjor rumbled next to him, his arms crossing in his habitual stance of annoyance.

"No, it's fine," Thonnir said with a wave as the Redguard approached with their drinks and food. He handed her some gold and waited for her to move away before starting again. "I helped to clear them out. A master vampire named Morvarth was leading nearly a dozen thralls and a few weaker vampires. I couldn't take on one that powerful alone, no matter how much anger I had at the time over Laelette."

"Who helped you last time? The city guard?" he asked, taking a few bites of the watery soup to ease the slight rumble that was starting to build in his stomach. It wasn't much for taste or substance, but it was better than having only mead in his belly should they decide to attack that night.

"The Dragonborn and her housecarl," Thonnir said easily, taking a deep drink from his cup. "They helped discover that a local woman had been turned and was working for Morvarth to turn or kill others in the city. She was responsible for my Laelette," he said, his voice choking slightly. Vilkas waited while the Nord covered his emotion with a long pull from his mug. "Thank the gods that they came through town when they did, otherwise I doubt any of use would be left alive!"

"So you fought with Elsa and Lydia, then?" he couldn't help but ask, his tone becoming slightly shorter at the thought of the drunken Dragonborn even being able to take on a skeever, let alone a master vampire.

"Elsa, yes, Talos bless her soul. I don't know a Lydia, though," Thonnir said, pushing some bread towards Skjor who was focused on his meal rather than the talk. It was his way to be brusque when it came to accepting contracts. Vilkas wasn't sure whether this was due to the older warrior's impatience with most men or that the wolf that guided many of his friend's actions didn't care about who or what needed to be taken care of so long as it involved a fight. No matter the reason, Skjor's was a very different approach to accepting work than what he took. He needed to collect all the pertinent facts and weigh out all of his options before accepting any coin for any job.

"I thought you said her housecarl was with her?" he asked, slightly confused. "That is Lydia."

"I thought he was her housecarl," the lumberjack mused over his drink. "Perhaps not, though. They did seem _closer_ than a housecarl would be with their Thane. The way she got so worried when Morvarth had jumped on him...Not that it matters who or what he was, I'm just glad they _both_ were there. It took every bit of their skill for the two of them to deal with that vampire and his damn magic."

The information slightly confused Vilkas who had always thought that Elsa had drug Lydia around with her while she fought dragons and traveled around Skyrim. He had to admit that he didn't pay much attention to the housecarl's movements and whether she was in the city or not, leaving him to trust that what the man said to be true. _I wonder who it was that she had with her if not Lydia,_ he thought to himself as he took a bite of bread, trying to recall anything he may have heard over the years about the Dragonborn and her movements. No one really focused on her companions, attributing amazing feats to Elsa alone without any acknowledgement of those that helped her. He assumed, again, that whomever this man was that had accompanied her must have done most of the work, seeing no sign in Elsa of ever being a warrior capable enough to kill a master vampire. _Probably got frustrated and left her too,_ he thought with a smile.

"So how many bloodsuckers are we talking and how much gold do you have to give?" Skjor finally cut in, pushing his bowl aside with a satisfied smile.

"I have seen at least six different vampire thralls coming and leaving the cave and at least three different vampires. I can't be sure if there are more or not," Thonnir said, his hard face grim with the news. "After what happened with Laelette, I have saved money to hire extra hands if the monsters ever grew beyond my skill. I have five hundred gold that is yours if you do this. The Jarl is also willing to double that upon completion."

"Then it sounds like we will be hunting bloodsuckers in the morning," Skjor replied matter-of-factly before standing and giving the lumberjack and his shield-brother a stern look. "I expect the gold to be waiting for us here at the inn by morning. I'm going to get us rooms and call it a night so we can start at dawn."

"I will be right behind you," Vilkas replied, receiving a brisk nod from his friend before the older man walked away. Turning back to Thonnir, he chewed a mouthful of soup and bread before asking the last of his questions. "Where is the cave?

"The lair is just north of town. If you follow the path here from the inn it will only be a short walk away," he answered quickly. "That is why it is so dangerous for us here. We are the closet things for those monsters to feed on."

"I understand," he said, finishing his soup with a quick gulp and standing. "We will start out in the morning. We won't leave any alive."

"Thank you!" Thonnir said, standing and clasping hands with the Companion. "It means so much to me and Laelette's memory."

"This is what we're here for," he replied, pulling away from the Nord and heading towards the counter where the Redguard directed him towards his room. It had been a long day after a short night, the click of the door as he shut it behind him filling him with relief. Stripping out of his armor, he stretched his arms and legs, letting his mind go blank for the first time that day. The pressure and urge to change had subsided with physical exertion while his exhaustion only grew. He was happy to push aside all thoughts and curiosities and fall into the bed and let sleep take him.

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><p>Keeper Carcette sat near the altar of Stendarr in the Hall of the Vigilant in a sour mood. From where she sat she could see the entirety to the wide hall, meant to hold hundreds as they worshipped and prayed to the holy Divine, Stendarr. Unfortunately, only a handful of devote Vigilants sat on the long benches that faced the beautiful alter, praying to their god in silence while their Keeper looked on.<p>

They were a sparse group, consisting of a few Imperials, one Redguard, and a fellow Breton. All were somber in their silent meditations, their faces looking more like fixed stone under their traditional blue-grey robes and matching cream and grey cowls. She frowned down at them from her seat of power, wishing that their devotion to Stendarr would drive them to travel the roads more often and spread his justice. Yet as the Stormcloaks took power and many Imperials fled, the numbers in the Vigilants of Stendarr dropped significantly. No longer did they have the support of the government to seek out defilers of the Divines or the abominations that plagued all of Nirn. No longer were they rewarded for the heads of vampires, werewolves, witches, and that disregarded the holy gift of life.

_Our numbers are growing to be pathetic,_ she mused bitterly to herself as she took in the six benches that sat on either side of a lush red carpet embroidered with ornate black and gold designs that warmed the thick slabs of stone that made up the hall's floor. At one time their numbers had been so great that nearly quadruple the number of benches filled the massive hall, and even that hadn't been enough to provide seating to their brothers and sisters that sought to worship and recover after months of protecting all of Nirn from scourge of mankind.

_Times are growing dark again,_ she thought, looking up into the high vaulted ceiling, sending a silent prayer for guidance to Stendarr, God of Righteous Might and Merciful Forbearance. She tried to let the traditional words of her prayers soothe the growing apprehension in her soul, focusing on the chants that begged for mercy and guidance that had been created during the birth of the militant holy faction over two centuries prior during the Oblivion Crisis. Yet it did little to calm the dark mood that had settled over her. For too long the hall stood quiet. Never before had she been able to hear the crackle of the fire that sat in the long, stone hearth at the opposite end of the hall from her position near the alter. The rumbling mixture of voices and weapons being trained that had filled the hall had disappeared only to be replaced by the silent flickering and sputtering from the candles that sat in the ornate wreaths on the tall support pillars that lined the length of the hall. Fewer of their numbers were returning after missions to warm themselves by the fire that was kept burning at the far end of the hall or train with some of the dummies that sat uselessly against the walls. Even their alter to the most holy Stendarr had lost its grandeur as the offers barely filled the massive table his relic sat on.

"And who shall bring justice to the lands to all those that disregard life and mercy should we fall?" she muttered out into the quiet. "This cannot be part of your divine plan. Our existence is the only thing that protects the holy gift of life from destruction and despair!"

Staring up towards the ceiling again, she searched for some answer, some sign from the Lord of Mercy, but again was met with silence. Breathing in deeply, she closed her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap. _Doubt will not do,_ she lectured herself, controlling her breathing as an exercise to clear her mind of treacherous thoughts. _Stendarr's judgment must be passed and we shall not fall so long as we are his hand here on Nirn_.

A loud creak resounded through the hall, marking that someone had entered their sacred hall. Opening her eyes, she smiled upon seeing one of their more pious members. "Phane Mastien," she called, rising from her post near the alter and moving to greet the young Breton man. "I was beginning to wonder when you would return to us," she finished, holding out both her arms towards the young man.

Phane smiled his suave grin as he reached his hands out, clasping her forearms in a customary greeting as she did the same. "The road was filled with the defilers, I'm afraid dear Keeper," he answered, his handsome face brightening as his smile grew.

Carcette felt her face warm as she looked at him, taking in his beauty that had to be a gift directly from Dibella herself. Despite both of them being Breton, he was more obviously a mix of elf and human than she. He had bronze locks that waved gently over his ears and midway down his neck that added a glow to the strange olive tone to his smooth skin. His eyes were large and wide setting over high Altmer cheeks while his shallowly sloping nose and full red lips were more Imperial, or even Nord than anything else. He was slightly taller than an average Breton, his graceful frame that flowed into lean shoulders standing at least five or six inches taller than her. Even his hands were so perfectly Breton with exaggeratedly long, graceful fingers that that the Keeper couldn't help but wonder what they would feel like caressing her skin.

_Stop those thoughts at once!_ she sternly ordered herself, feeling a heat rising to her sallow cheeks as she broke their formal embrace. _He is not one for you,_ she lectured as she looked down at her small hands that lacked the characteristic grace of her race, causing her to silently curse her ancestors. She lacked any of the strange beauty that Phane had from their ancient bloodline of both mer and man. Her short-cropped hair had the color and consistency of straw, much like a Nord while her narrow nose and pointed chin could easily been described as an Imperial trait. Although she was small and slim, she lacked any of the robustness that many of the human races' women seemed to have, leaving her robes to fall flatly against her narrow body. She worked hard to hide her thin lips using a subtle mix of dyes so that they would appear larger and more pleasing, but it did little to help make her rather plain face appear more extraordinary. The only thing she felt proud of in her appearance was her lean neck and high cheekbones that held up her small, muddy eyes.

Letting a small sigh escape her lips as she went through the all too familiar litany of her flaws, she forced herself to think of her skills as a mage and the strength of her magicka. Despite her physical shortcomings, she was renowned as an expert in Restoration, few equaling her in competence or power when it came to those spells. She also was more than competent in Conjuration and Destruction, her deep supply of power and extensive knowledge of the arcane making her a dangerous enemy to any that had the misfortune of securing her hatred.

"How have things been here, at the hall?" Phane asked, moving towards a table sitting against the wall that held a few scraps of leftover bread and meat from dinner that day. She watched his lovely hands as they delicately picked at the food, his long fingers moving with a motion so fluid she could only liken it to flowing water.

Feeling his honey colored eyes falling on her, she tore her gaze from his hands and focused on the thick pillars that lined the hall. "They have been dreadfully quiet. All of our efforts to replace those that have fallen or abandoned our cause don't seem to be working and I can't figure out why."

"Who is it that you have been going after, if I might ask?" he asked politely, his hands bringing a small bit of bread to his thick lips, causing her mind to briefly wonder if they felt as soft as they looked and what it would be like to feel their touch not only on her lips but across her neck and down her skin to her –

"Are you all right, Keeper Carcette?" his charming voice rang out, pulling her from her thoughts so suddenly that she felt a her cheeks become a furious shade of red.

"Yes, why?" she asked, feeling flustered by the uncontrolled thoughts he brought up in her.

"You were staring at me very strangely just now. Are you feeling ill?"

"No, I'm fine," she said quickly, turning from the young Breton to try and hide her embarrassment. "What was it that you asked?"

"I just wondered who you were attempting to recruit," he said again, his eyes searing into her back with an intensity that she only wished he was giving her behind the closed door of her room while his long fingers undressed her.

"We've been going to all the small settlements," she choked out awkwardly, her voice catching as her mind wandered in its fantasy. "We were hoping that we would find more restless young men and women there now that the Stormcloaks have reduced their recruiting efforts, but it has proved to be futile."

"So you have not considered what we spoke of this past Rain's Hand." He said matter-of-factly, his warm mouth sloping into a deep frown, his eyes carrying a hint of warning as a dangerous light filled them. "You did not even look at the lists I gave you?"

"I didn't think it very likely that you would be able to recruit any of those people," Carcette said defensively while avoiding his fuming eyes. There was a spark in them that spoke of a barely contained power that, if released in a state of high emotion, would not only be dangerous but very likely fatal. She had glimpsed it in the young Breton before, but never had it been directed at her. For the first time in the four years she knew Phane she felt the fear others in the Vigilants of Stendarr had whispered about after an ill-fated encounter. It made her want to cower in a corner and give the youth whatever it was that he asked for, despite being not only his elder by a decade or so, but being his superior within the holy order.

_Stand your ground, Carcette,_ she told herself as the Breton's beautiful face hardened, his anger becoming more and more evident. _You are the leader of the Vigilants. Why are you letting him make you act like a coward?_

Despite her words, the hairs on her arm stood on end and her muscles involuntarily tensed, as if she were preparing to either fight or flee for her life. Daring to peak at the young man, she gathered her courage and spoke as she felt a leader should to a subordinate. "Besides, the Silver Hand was a failed experiment. They all turned out to be bandits. Half of the time they ended up attacking innocents rather than seeking out werewolves."

"I'm sorry to hear that you feel that way about them," he answered slowly, his honey eyes drawing her gaze and forcing her to meet his angry glare. "Otherwise I would _not_ have spent the last _seven seasons_ rebuilding their ranks and training those _bandits_ to become good foot soldiers! It is all a waste if I do not have the proper men and women to lead them and make them into the army they should be!" he finished hotly, his fine features morphing into something fierce and dark. "Now they will certainly fail since the best I have to work with are thugs like Krev the Skinner! If that is the kind of man leading our front against werewolves than they will win and Stendarr shall not see justice brought on the evil beasts!"

Carcette shrank back as Phane yelled, his eyes looking more like fire with his emotion while his face held none of his former composure or beauty. It was if the divine façade of grace and beauty that he normally wore had been ripped away and replaced by a Dremora flinging the fires of Oblivion on its terrible path of destruction.

The room seemed to warm with his anger and a faint prickle crept up her skin as she finally witness what others had warned her of when he first came to their hall seeking recruitment. She hadn't believed the fearful tales of his massive power and poor control, nor had she listened when they begged her to not allow him to swear the oath to Stendarr and join their ranks in the Vigil. But now she saw just how easily the young Breton could be pushed over the edge and lose his control. She understood that beyond his beauty and gilded tongue, he kept a dangerous and powerful rage deep within him.

For moment her mind flashed to the rumors of burned corpses and the brutal killings of those he had interrogated as being werewolves or vampires, all of which she had disregarded. Yet as the dim candlelight began to flicker and the buzzing energy rose around him, she began to see him in a different light than the gorgeous and unattainable young man she fantasized about.

Reaching her hand out, she lightly touched his arm, feeling a surge of sharp electricity run through her fingers and up her arm. "Phane –"

"Don't touch me!" he shouted, pulling away. "And here I thought you and the rest of the Vigilants truly were for riding Nirn of all those beasts that defile it! To destroy all vampires, werewolves, and Daedra but it was all lies, wasn't it?"

"No!" she exclaimed, looking around at the other few Vigilants who were now staring at the scene, their faces filled with confused apprehension as even the most mundane of them could feel the power the Breton was barely keeping in check. "But I have to do what's best for everyone," she reasoned, moving away from the Breton as sparks began to build around his hands. "Phane, calm down. Please!"

He turned and looked at her, his face a mixture of hatred and rage. For a moment, she truly believed he was going to attack her; his honey eyes flashing yellowish-red in a narrowed look filled with determination. As she began pulling her own magicka into her hands so that she could quickly shield herself should he release power he was holding, she watched a small twitch cross his mouth, his hands flexing slightly as the static tension grew. She could see in his furious stare and stiff posture that the energy that was flowing out of his fingers in bright blue sparks was quickly reaching the point where he would not be able to contain it, his muscles shaking as he held back the force that wished to escape his body. Just when she thought he would lose his control something shifted in his eyes and the anger that had come on so quickly simply washed away.

Carcette stared wide-eyed as his body relaxed and the blue flashes of energy slowly were pulled back into his skin. His face softened and rearranged from something dark and malicious to the visage tranquil beauty. He let out a heavy sigh and blinked a few times before looking up at her with calm honey eyes. "Forgive me, Keeper Carcette. It is just that I have worked so very hard on this project that it was alarming to see how little faith you had in it," he said softly in his normal smooth tone, his voice holding none of the darkness or fury from moments ago.

The shock of the rapid change in the young Breton left her speechless. She looked to the other Vigilants for support, but only found them quickly making their way from the hall and the explosive man. "What would you have me do?" she managed to squeak out, her voice trembling for a completely different reason than it had just a few minutes prior.

"Look at my list. Or give me the permission to recruit the leaders I need!" he pleaded, his eyes growing large as he begged. "I have already trained nearly one hundred men and have divided them into small groups. Without the proper leaders they are nothing more than mindless bandits. I need true warriors to lead them if we ever wish to fully destroy one of our greatest enemies!"

"I need to know what makes you think that any those people you've named will ever join? All of them have jobs and very successful lives." She said meekly, avoiding his gaze.

"Because, like me, they lost _everything_ because of werewolves. Believe me, they _will_ join the Silver Hand now that I have shaped it into something honorable and organized." He said darkly, his voice carrying a hint of his anger and hatred. "I have worked relentlessly to make the Silver Hand an honorable faction fighting against the filth of Oblivion and _they will join!"_

The Keeper hesitated for a moment, watching the young Breton at the hint of more anger. Seeing no sign of magic, though, she cautiously continued her questioning. "And then what? What is your plan after you convince them to join the Vigilants?"

"No, they won't be Vigilants, my dear Keeper. At least not at first," he said softly. "They will know nothing about Stendarr or the order's involvement until they are shown to be worthy of trust. We must be careful due to the strength of some of our enemies. If word reached those _Companions_, well…" he trailed off, the name of the famed warriors coming off his tongue like acid.

"We are not strong enough to face them, Phane," Carcette warned, her eyes darting towards his to gauge his reaction.

"No, we aren't. That's why my warriors will remain separate from the Vigil as the Silver Hand. Those beasts know that name already and will not associate us with it. They will think of them as nothing more than the disorganized bandits they have always been and it will make them careless. That's when my warriors will attack, killing every last one of them," he finished, making a tight fist and shaking it. "If we destroy them all the other werewolves will fall."

"But that's just if our assumption that the Companions are making more abominations is correct," the Keeper argued. "We have never been able to confirm that they are responsible for Skyrim's infestation."

"Why wait for conformation? If they are, then we are one step closer to eradication. If they are not, then we have still killed the most dangerous werewolves in all of Nirn. The justice Stendarr demands will be given to them and it will be at _my_ hand," he said passionately, moving closer to his leader. "Please, Carcette," he said softly, placing a hand under her chin and gently lifting it so that she looked into his eyes. "If for not for Stendarr and Nirn, do this for me. Give me permission to build the Silver Hand into the army it was meant to be. Let me recruit these warriors if you will not."

She shivered involuntarily at his touch, the smooth warmth of his skin making her body ache for him to touch more than her chin. As if sensing her yearning, his fingertips drifted down her neck, making her flesh stand on end. "Please," he said again, his voice deepening as his fingers continued their trail.

"Alright," she managed to whisper over her irregular breaths. "You may go."

"Thank you," he said quickly, pulling away from her and marching towards the door. "May Stendarr show you mercy."

"What?" she called out confused, her face turning a brilliant shade of red. "Where are you going?"

"To check on some of my men cleaning out a vampire den," he answered, stepping through the door without a second look.

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><p><strong>AN: So here is the first of some of the OC that will start to pop up in the story. Please let me know what you think. This story has grown beyond what I had originally planned for it and I would love to hear some feedback!<strong>


	9. The Folly of Anger

**AN: Sorry for the long delay. Life happened and then I wrote and rewrote this chapter three times. Originally I had intended it to have multiple POV, but it got lengthy and the other sections aren't ready so I decided to give you this :) I was hoping to have an action scene in this chapter as well, but alas, it is all Elsa and she is in no shape to do anything right now!**

**Again, I believe I contacted all reviews directly, but thank you so much for taking the few minutes to leave a comment. It really helps to hear the good and the bad and get your opinions. So if you haven't reviewed yet, now is the time to start!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

A rough hand shaking her was the first thing Elsa became aware of as her eyes slowly blinked open and the groggy haze of drink began to wear off. It took a few moments before her mind cleared enough so that she could see and hear the world around her. It was only then that she noticed the damp coolness of her bedding after a night full of withdrawal sweats and the smell of rancid bile from where she had vomited at some point. Sitting up with a groan, her body felt as though a mammoth had trampled it. Every muscle protested the work she was forcing them to do as she moved around stiffly.

"Good, you're awake," came the throaty voice of Aela from the side of the bed. Elsa looked over and unhappily noted that she was already dressed in her armor and was looking at her expectantly.

"What time is it?" the Dragonborn groaned as she slowly threw her legs over the side of the bed and felt the familiar shaking sensation of her limbs. _I need a drink,_ she thought dully as a rush of saliva filled her mouth with the thought of the liquid.

"Just past dawn. It's time to start getting you back into fighting shape," Aela replied sternly. "I have breakfast waiting for you upstairs. We'll start as soon as you're done eating. So get moving, Dragonborn. We only have a few days before Vilkas will be back."

"He's not here?" she asked blankly, her mind still to groggy to fully appreciate what the fierce woman was telling her.

"No, he's on a job. Get dressed and come upstairs. I don't want to waste any more time," the warrior finished, her heavy steps echoing into the hallway and up the stairs to the mead hall.

Standing on weak legs, she looked around the dimly lit room until her eyes landed on a rough pile that was her leather armor. It had finally dried from the previous day, but was stiff and misshaped after being thrown into the tub by Vilkas. "Still better than this shit," she mumbled, tearing off the crumpled shirt and pants that the harsh man had given her to wear.

Slipping on the leather pants that were made in the fashion of Cyrodiil, she felt how loose they were on her atrophied body. It was an exact duplicate of the armor she had made sixteen years ago when she fled Bruma for Skyrim at the ripe age of sixteen. The original armor was destroyed when she had accidentally stumbled upon an imperial raid, leaving her nothing but rags and armor off a dead soldier's back. For a moment she smiled at the memory of reaching Riverwood and crafting the leather pants and cuirass to the biting critiques of town's smith, Alvor. They had argued for hours on which country's armor was better, whether it was Cyrodiil's more functional and covering pant and cuirass combination or the odd fur and iron studded skirts and sleeveless tops of Skyrim.

Unfortunately, the happy memories didn't last long as her thoughts lead her quickly through her journey to Whiterun, then Ivarstead, to Riften and Windhelm, through Solitude, Winterhold, Morthal, and finally to Markarth. Dark memories began to drift in front of her eyes, forcing her near sober mind to face things she had long buried. Her thin legs began to shake underneath her as she thought of the dank stone chambers in the Hall of the Dead and the utter sense finality of an engraved tomb being slid shut on top of a coffin with a dull thud.

"Ouch!" she shouted out suddenly as a sharp pain searing her bare foot pulled her from her thoughts. "Bato, you idiot," she muttered as she pulled the little mudcrab from her heel, taking some of the skin off with it.

The crab made a high squealing noise and snapped its claws at her face as she brought it up and stared at it. "You're just a baby," she whispered as it clicked its small, slightly soft claws and wiggled the two antennas that stuck up just above its beady black eyes. It was probably one of a hundred born of the same female, the delicate shells and claws of the young making the first year of life a hazardous one filled with many fatalities. Elsa became convinced that her tiny crab would have just been one more ill fated attempt at life had she not rescued it from the river.

"I won't let anything happen to you," she cooed at it as she set it carefully on her bed. "Just let me get you some food," she finished as she left the room and gathered up all the remaining food that sat on the small table just outside of the room. Dumping her haul onto the bed, the crab immediately scuttled towards the meat and set about eating.

Elsa watched her pet for a moment to be sure that it was satisfied before forcing her feet to carry her across the cold stone hall and up the stairs towards the smell of food and sound of chatter. Creeping up the wooden stairs as quietly as she could, she peeked out into the main hall of Jorrvaskr and confirmed that Vilkas truly wasn't there. His twin sat in a corner eating quietly while three other warriors she had seen but not yet met sat together at the main table with Torvar, their voices filling the otherwise empty hall in gruff and enthusiastic tones. She remained where she was for a few moments, eavesdropping on their conversation that seemed to be centered around her.

"I heard that she traded her boots for ale," came a lean Dunmer man with blood red eyes and a small growth of hair around his mouth. He wore typical Nord armor made of crisscrossing leather straps lined with metal, fur, and thick hide tassets that were long enough to be a skirt. Elsa decided immediately that she didn't trust his narrow face that he had covered with white war paint or the tone of his sniveling voice.

"Worthless drunk," came a helmeted Nord woman with a deep voice. It was hard to tell her features from under the thick steel helm, her red war paint hiding the angles of her cheeks or the definition of her jaw. She too wore armor that looked like every other Nord's, its hide cuirass lacking sleeves and revealing much of the woman's chest, as if it were daring someone to try to shoot an arrow into the vulnerable flesh.

"I don't know, Njada, she _is_ the Dragonborn," said another woman, a dark-haired Imperial with a hopeful look that covered the soft, fresh skin of her youthful face. "Besides, Torvar drinks but he can fight."

"You're right, Ria!" the blonde Nord replied, lifting his glass with a slight weaving motion. "Ale doesn't affect my fighting. In fact, killed a bear just last week!"

"You make me sick," the Dunmer said with an impatient sneer. "How they let you into the Companions I'll never know."

"Knew Vignar," Torvar said with a laugh. "And I've still done more jobs than you, Athis."

"That's just because you've been here two years longer than I have," the Dunmer argued, his voice becoming defensive as he looked towards the Nord woman for help.

"You're just as worthless as that woman, Torvar," she snapped quickly.

"But at least I don't snore!" the drunken Companion said with a laugh, standing up on unsteady legs. "Now if you excuse me, I have some business to deal with," he finished making his way towards the stairs. Elsa quickly pulled herself up as the kind man that had given her ale approached.

"Shield-sister!" he said with a laugh as he spied her. "Up already?"

"Yes," she answered with a shrug.

"Well there's plenty of ale out on the table," he said, passing her on his way towards the living quarters.

"Thanks," she replied, the mention of ale finally causing her feet to move up the remaining steps and towards the table.

The eyes of the remaining three warriors followed her on her slow walk, the Dunmer called Athis making an impatient clicking noise while the Nord woman crossed her arms in disgust. For a moment, Elsa felt a stir of shyness and shame at their looks, but she pushed it from her mind at the sight of not only fresh food, but bottle upon bottle of ale and mead.

Sitting roughly a few seats away from the other _whelps_, as Vilkas was apt to call them, she began to pile a plate high with bread and eggs. Then, grabbing up three bottles of ale she quickly dumped two onto her food, letting the precious liquid become soaked into the soft bread and congeal around her eggs. It was a trick she had learned early on into her drinking when it had become harder and harder for her stomach to process anything solid after days of nothing but liquid. Spooning some of her mushy bread and ale into her mouth, she let the soggy mess move over her tongue and down her throat where it sat uncomfortably on her empty stomach. Lifting the third bottle to her lips, she took a long pull that did wonders to settle her protesting gut.

She continued the pattern of a few shovels of food followed by a heavy drink until her stomach felt as though it were about to burst. She couldn't recall the last time she had eaten anything solid, making it a small wonder that she didn't become sick after her brief period of gorging. Leaning back she eyed the remainder of her food listlessly, letting her spoon lift and fall into the mush with a half-hearted rhythm while her stomach turned slightly to accommodate her food. Glancing around the hall she ignored the hushed conversation and sharp looks from the young warriors and found herself staring at Vilkas' twin brother.

Farkas sat in the corner at a small table, his broad shoulders and wide chest making an amusing picture when noticing the tiny size of the wooden chair he sat on. _Lydia always did like large men,_ she mused for a moment before the bitterness of her housecarl and her betrayal returned to the forefront of her mind.

"Bitch," she muttered into her soggy mess of ale, bread, and eggs.

"What was that?" came a forceful voice from where the other four fighters sat, the speaker being a scowling Nord woman that felt the need to wear her helmet, even at the table.

Elsa ignored the woman's continued stare and thin-lipped frown by shoveling more of the slop she had created into her mouth. She only got in two spoonfuls when the Nord woman that she heard called Njada rose from her seat and stormed towards her. "Are you too good for us to answer a question, drunk?" the woman asked in a biting tone, her brown eyes narrowing in disgust.

It was a look that Elsa was use to seeing from people and did little to break her renewed concentration on her food. Taking another bite, she answered with a full mouth. "I wasn't talking to you, but you are a bitch as well."

The woman bent forward so that her face was only a few inches away, her brown eyes growing hard with her glare. "The last fool that spoke to a Stonearm with such disrespect lost their tongue," she hissed.

"Njada, sit down," the dark elf, Athis, called out. "She's not worth your time."

"Yes, Njada, why don't you go be a good girl and sit down with your little friends and be quiet," Elsa sang out, raising her bottle and taking a long drink with an air of carelessness.

The Nord's eyes flashed red as she quickly pulled her steel sword that bore the marks of the Skyforge from its plain brown sheath. For a moment, things seemed to stand still as the Dunmer and the Imperial gasped and gawked in their seats at the quick action of their friend. Elsa felt her bloodshot eyes gain a sort of clarity that they had lacked for years as her heart picked up its pace at the threat. She felt her hand move to her side automatically, searching for the weapons that she had once carried and finding nothing but empty space. It was in that moment that she felt a small panic constrict her throat and squeeze at her chest with the realization that she was defenseless against the arrogant young woman who's every breath seemed to be for the single purpose of showing her greatness over others.

Yet before Njada could swing her sword into action or let it add force to some further threat, Farkas stood from his seat and towered over the scene with heated frustration. "_Enough!_" his voice boomed out over the hall, stopping all movement from Njada and sword, to the Imperial girl, Ria, wide-eyed whimpers and shouts. Everything was still and quiet under the monstrous figure of the giant, his voice holding none of the pleasant dullness that it had when Elsa first met him.

"She called me a –" Njada started, breaking the tense silence as she stood lamely in the veteran warrior's shadow, catching a icy glare that normally only came from his twin's eyes.

"I don't care what she called you! You don't draw your weapon on a shield-sibling except in practice," Farkas growled, his square features morphing with anger to be more and more like his brother's.

"But she's not our shield-sibling!" she continued to argue. "She's not even a warrior! No warrior would trade their gear for ale or –"

"Enough!" he said again, raising his hand in a jerky motion. "Elsa is here in our hall and I don't want to hear anything else about it," he finished, giving Athis, Ria, and Njada each a long look before turning towards the silent Dragonborn. "Aela is waiting for you in the yard. Think it's about time that you go see her."

Elsa nodded slowly, her mind still processing everything that had occurred in a matter of seconds. Standing, she grabbed a few bottles of ale and tried to push the deep unease that had settled in her gut when her hand had come up empty of a weapon at Njada's threat. The flash of steel and hard-set eyes was something that she hadn't seen since she had taken up in Whiterun, confining herself mainly to her home and the Bannered Mare. Both were places that she had little need of weapons as no one truly sought to kill anyone, leaving all fights to be won out with bare fists or idle threats.

Yet Njada had a hot heart and a full head, making her hand quick to resolve words with warm, freshly spilled blood. It was the first true threat Elsa had faced in years and had Njada acted or had Farkas not stepped in, she would not have been able to walk away from it as she did now. No matter what she had ever been in her life, or what she had become, she had never thought of herself as helpless and at the mercy of others until that moment when her hand gripped at air and her blood pounded in her ears. It was a reality that did not sit well on her churning stomach as she pushed her way out of the large wooden doors and made her way across the covered patio area and into the training field.

"You're here. Good," Aela called out by way of greeting as Elsa carefully set down her bottles and approached her. She looked as fierce as ever, her red face paint standing out brightly against her tanned skin and yellow eyes. "Let's have a look at you. I want to see what I have to work with."

Elsa raised her arms out and let out a large sigh as the warrior made a slow circle around her, her hands occasionally poking or grabbing at various muscles hidden under her leather armor. As the Companion completed her examination she let out a small tsking noise and shook her head. "You don't have much for muscle mass on you," she said with a scowl. "It will be difficult for you to do much training until you have built up your strength again. Are you eating well?"

"I did this morning," the Dragonborn answered quickly, her pale eyes squinting against the brightness of the cool Frostfall sun.

"Make sure you are getting lots of meat. I mean to bulk you up again so that your armor doesn't hang off you like a child as it does now," Aela said, her face scowling as she looked down at her pupil's still bare feet. "And get yourself some boots and bracers again. You'll be no use as a warrior if you injure your feet and can't run."

"I have plenty of boots at Breezehome," Elsa replied sourly. "I just am not allowed back to get them."

"I'll have Farkas speak to Lydia about gathering some things for you," Aela said quickly, crossing her arms as she continued her long, examining looks. "I suppose there is no use in asking if you will be sobering up any time soon," she said more as a statement than a question.

"No."

The warrior's frown deepened. "How much have you had today?"

"Not nearly enough," Elsa said darkly.

"I want an amount from you, Dragonborn," Aela pressed, her hand reaching out and pinching at her arms, testing the size of her biceps and triceps as she waited for her answer.

"I drank one straight and had some more in my food. But at Breezehome, unless it was a bad day I would have at least five or six bottles in the morning to keep the shakes down."

"And what would be a bad day?" the Companion asked, her yellow hawk-eyes locking onto Elsa's with such intensity that she felt like the woman was seeing straight to her soul and carving out some sort of judgment on her character. It was unsettling and sent a wave of paranoia through her as she began to doubt if working with the strange woman was a good idea.

"I asked you a question, Dragonborn. I expect an answer," Aela demanded, her voice becoming sterner.

"A bad day would be ten, or sixteen, or however many bottles it took until I would blackout and eventually pass out," she answered bluntly, feeling only a small twinge of shame over what had become routine when the warrior's look hardened and her frown deepened. "But it's been nearly a week since I've done that."

"Well, you don't seem to be shaking much today," Aela said slowly, her voice covering all of her thoughts so that Elsa could only guess at what the woman was thinking.

"The last two days I haven't had even half of what I normally do," she explained quietly, her mind thinking to the pain she felt last night as her body demanded more drink than what she had available. It wasn't a true withdrawal, but it was enough that she seemed to be able to function a bit better with less alcohol, at least so far. "I've adjusted somewhat to having less."

Aela nodded, her face turning stony as she processed what she had told her. Elsa watched her eyes, trying to see any hint of what the woman was thinking. It was clear that she was strong by the way her skin pulled at her lean muscles and fit frame. It was also obvious that she was beyond capable when it came to fighting as she was the only woman within all of the Companions to have reached a level within the organization that granted her private quarters. For a moment, Elsa wondered how long it took for the yellow-eyed woman to reach a status that commanded a level of respect from the rest of the warriors including the seemingly hard to please Vilkas. _Probably years,_ she thought sourly as the dark-haired Nord's sour face appeared in her thoughts only to morph into the cruel smile he had given her down by the riverbank.

A small bubble of resentment and anger rose in her stomach as she continued on with her own thoughts. The familiar feelings of undeserved and unjust treatment circled through her mind while she mentally recounted all the reasons _everyone_ should be not only thanking her, but leaving her in peace to do as she damn well pleased.

It was in the middle of these thoughts that she saw a slight shift in Aela's stance and a spark of something in her yellow eyes. Had her mind and reflexes not been dulled by ale and anger, she may have realized that it was the physical representation of a predator ready to strike. Unfortunately, Elsa barely had time to comprehend that she saw something when the warrior's closed fist came up quickly from her side and contacted her left side. A sharp jolt of electricity shot through her body at the hit as her still wounded ribs screamed out at the sudden insult.

"You're slow," Aela said at the surprised and questioning look Elsa gave her.

"I wasn't aware we were starting," she spat at the Companion, her right arm still clutching her side in protection.

"I wasn't aware that the dragons called out and told you that they were about to attack," she mocked, her body becoming loose and unthreatening.

"Well they did," the Dragonborn snarled. "They weren't known for being sneaking creatures. Their wings alone made enough noise to wake an army if their roars didn't."

"And I gave you no clues that I was about to strike? There were absolutely no signals you could read on my body?" Aela asked impatiently.

Elsa felt her jaw set as anger rose up in her. She hated being mocked and, even more than that, she hated when others told her she was wrong. She had never been a good pupil even as a child when it came to receiving criticism in her training at her father's forge or, worse yet, in the small ladies circle she was forced to attend to learn needlework and painting. Yet this was not creating pretty designs on pillows or working metal. This was a game of life and death and right now Aela was pointing out the small fact that Elsa had just come to realize that morning at the table with Njada; She was as unprepared, weak, and slow as many of the _warriors_ she had killed in the wilderness of Skyrim had been during her years as the hero Dragonborn. It was a knowledge that stung deep.

"I asked you a question, Dragonborn," Aela called out, her body moving into a more solid stance and her muscles tightening.

"Fine!" she called out, flinging her arms in the air. "You gave me signals. Is that what you want to hear?"

"No," the warrior said. "I don't want to hear anything from you but the sound of your skin and bones blocking my punch," she finished, swinging again with her right hand so that Elsa moved her left in defense. Still, in her muffled mind she was unable to see and process Aela's left foot twisting to add force to the blow with her other hand, the surprise impact to her right side feeling as though she didn't even wear armor.

"You're reactions are delayed, Dragonborn!" Aela called out as Elsa swung at her head, her nimble steps gracefully ducking under the punch while her arms flashed out and made three quick jabs on her pupil's abdomen.

Elsa grunted and bent over as a dull pain pushed the air from her lungs, leaving herself open for her opponent to a few more jabs at her sides and a swift elbow being driven down on the center of her back. The attack was so quick and the pain so intense, that she didn't even realize she had lost her footing until she tasted the dirt and grass from where she lay sprawled out on the ground. She felt some of her breakfast burn up her throat as all of her core muscles seemed to contract in pain. Swallowing it down, she glared up at the bronzed Companion to see her smiling.

"We have only been sparring for a few minutes and already you are making friends with the ground," Aela laughed down at her.

Elsa felt her rage grow at the mockery, rising to the taunt by lunging at her opponent's legs to tackle her to the ground. Yet, the superior physical state of the Companion and her clear head allowed her to easily step away from Elsa's lame attack. "Are you using dirty tactics because you are weak? Or is that how you always fight?"

"Fuck you, bitch!" Elsa screamed as she pulled herself to her feet. "I never wanted to do this or to even be here! So fuck you and your bet. I'm done!"

"So you are giving up," she heard Aela call out as she gathered her bottles and began walking towards the short path that led into Whiterun proper. "Is that how you defeated the dragons? Is that how you gained your reputation as one of the strongest warriors in all of Skyrim?"

Stopping in her tracks, Elsa turned and glared at the woman. "No," she hissed out dangerously. "And look at where all of that _bravery_ and _fighting_ has gotten me," she bit out before storming down the cold stone steps that led into the small rotunda circling the wilting Gildergreen with its towering branches and blood-red leaves. A few of Whiterun's more affluent citizens moved about the rotunda lazily, their expressions souring as she walked past them covered in dirt from where she fell and still missing essential pieces of clothing, such as boots. She glared at them while she moved past, letting their looks add fuel to her anger and sense of humiliation as her feet carried her towards the Bannered Mare.

_Fuck all of them,_ she thought angrily as she passed a young woman heavy with child that gave her a look of pure disgust. "You wouldn't even be alive to have a baby if it weren't for me," she muttered under her breath as she stormed into the quiet tavern, her bare feet carrying her towards the bar where Hulda sat frowning.

"No, Elsa. No more drinks unless you have coin," the sharp-faced innkeeper called out.

"You and the rest of the town know I can't get into my house. How the fuck am I suppose to have coin if I can't go home?" she spat as she leaned on the counter, accidently knocking a few carefully stacked glasses off the wooden surface where they shattered on the floor. "I'll pay you back for those and a drink as soon as Lydia let's me go back home."

"No you won't. _You_ don't have anymore gold. Otherwise you wouldn't have traded your boots to me just two nights ago! Now get out before I call the guards on you," Hulda said sternly, her hand reaching for her broom.

"And what would the guards do? Arrest the Dragonborn?" Elsa laughed at the innkeeper, taking a few steps back as she walked from behind the bar with her broom in hand.

"Yes, they will," she answered darkly. "Now get out of my bar and don't you dare come back until you have coin," she finished taking a sharp swing at her loyal customer. "I have no need for drunks like you breaking things in my inn!"

"Fine, I'll go!" she yelled back at the innkeeper, avoiding the swipes of the broom. "But don't expect to ever get a piece of my gold again, bitch!"

"I'll get double the business with you being gone," Hulda finished as Elsa stumbled out the door, falling back onto her butt. "You're a disgrace to your race and to all of Skyrim, you worthless drunk!" she yelled out before slamming the door the inn closed.

She stared at the door for a moment, trying to understand what just had happened when the sound of high-pitched laughter from behind her sent her to her feet ready for a fight. "You better shut the fuck up if you know what's good for you!" she yelled out as she turned to face a group of children that were giggling at her. She balled up her fist and waved it at them. "If you don't shut your dirty little mouths I'll do it for you!"

The children continued to laugh, ignoring her threat and her authority as an elder. Feeling a hot fury rise in her, Elsa clenched her jaw and stormed back the way she came. "Bastards," she muttered through her locked jaw as she walked past the steps to Jorrvaskr and stormed up the hill towards Dragonsreach, her anger growing with every step.

A few guards gave her wary looks, but no one hindered her path as she threw open the keep's wooden doors and stomped towards the small platform where Jarl Vignar Gray-Mane reclined on his wide chair. "Elsa," he started at the sight of her, standing hesitantly. "Why aren't you at Jorrvaskr?"

The Dragonborn barely heard his words as her vision turned red at the sight of one of the men who was to blame for her current situation. Picking up a nearby cup from one of two long tables that filled the main part of the room, she threw it with all her might at the Jarl's white head, not caring that what she did would be enough to land her in the dungeons for years.

"Guards!" Vignar yelled out as Elsa grabbed a plate and whipped it at his face, her anger only growing as men in steel armor and blue cloth began to circle around her.

"Fuck you!" she shouted as she threw another cup, dodging from the grasp of one guard only to have her arm roughly grabbed by another. "I _hate you! _I hate all of you!" she continued to shout as she struggled violently against the guard who was attempting to restrain her by wrapping his thick arms around her torso. "I _fucking saved your lives!_ Why can't you just let me be?"

"Restrain her legs, too," Vignar ordered as he stepped wearily down the small platform that raised his chair so that it overlooked those that would approach him with Whiterun's business. His mouth was a deep frown under his white mustache as he approached the struggling hero with crossed arms as his men did as he ordered.

Elsa continued to kick as she felt a hand wrap around her ankle, her bare foot making contact with some part of the soldiers armored chest. Yet it did little to stop the man from grabbing her legs roughly so that she was affectively hanging uselessly between the two guards. She let out a little scream of frustration as she tried to wiggle free from her captors, but their arms were too think and their hold too strong for her to do little else but glare at the Jarl.

"Now stop struggling, girl," he ordered angrily, his wrinkled eyes squinting at her as his mouth formed a thin line.

"Or what?" Elsa demanded from where she hung, ignoring the voice of reason that desperately called out from the back of her mind that what she was doing was a horrible idea. Instead, she let her rage and frustration make use of her alcoholic courage and continue to disrespect the most powerful man in all of the hold.

"Or I will see to it that you never get back into that little home of yours and are left to rot in a dungeon!" Vignar yelled, small flecks of spit flying as he spoke.

"A dungeon or Jorrvaskr. I don't see the difference!" she spat at him.

The Jarl strode up to her and grabbed her cheeks roughly. "Jorrvaskr is a place of honor. You would do well to remember it!"

Elsa said nothing as he threw her face to the side and began to pace. She felt a deep hatred fill her as he shook his head and muttered something about dishonoring her house and disrespecting an old man. She felt a curse bubble up her throat and press against her lips as he abruptly turned back towards her and began to speak to his guards. "Take her to the barracks and lock her in the practice room. If she wants to hit something let it be a straw dummy."

"How long should we keep her there?" the guard holding her arms asked in a heavy Nordic accent.

"Until she's cooled down," Vignar answered. "Now get her out of my sight!"

"Yes, my Jarl," the guards said in unison as they moved to carry out his orders. She continued to struggle as they marched away from the Jarl and towards a small side door that she knew led towards the soldier barracks. Yet neither seemed bothered in the slightest at her small, squirming movements as they quickly moved through their living quarters and towards the practice room.

"The Jarl said you were to stay in here until you calm down," the guard that held her arms said as they opened the door and set her inside. "But you better not give us any funny business while you're here."

"Or what?" she spat.

"The Jarl said nothing about leaving you unharmed," the guard said darkly as he stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut with a foreboding thud. Elsa continued to stare at the dull wood as she heard a lock click into place and the footsteps of the loyal guard move back the way they had come.

"Fuck you!" she yelled as she walked up to the door and pounded at it with her fists. "I hate all of you!"

Yet no one responded to her shouts or the dull thuds her hands made on the door. Realizing that she was alone, she turned from the door and took in her surroundings, searching for a way out of the room that had become a glorified prison cell. _Gods damn it_, she thought angrily as she took in the bare stone walls that held weapons racks rather than windows.

"Of course there would be no way out," she muttered angrily as she eyed a table covered with a random assortment of food, plates, cups, and weapons. Taking a few steps towards it, she was happy to see that most of the small cups were at least partial full with what smelt like ale. Picking one of them up, she tipped the small swallow of liquid into her mouth, immediately regretting the decision.

"It's stale!" she coughed in disgust as she tried to spit out the warm alcohol that she had failed to notice had globs of mold floating in it. Throwing the cup across the room, she felt her momentary pleasure fade back into anger as the taste of sickly sweet ale and mold clung to her tongue. In her mind she could hear the laughter of the children and see the nasty looks of the city dwellers who would no doubt be taunting her over the being stuck in a room full of undrinkable alcohol.

Turning towards the three straw dummies that sat against the far wall she felt her anger rise as their plain faces turned into the judging sneers and disgusted looks that she had been receiving for years. Her blood grew hotter as she bitterly thought of how every look and every taunt came from people who had her to thank for their lives. Yet no one seemed to care anymore at what she had gone through to defeat Alduin, the dragon known as the World-Eater. No one cared what she had lost and sacrificed so that their world could continue on as if most the powerful creation of the great god, Akatosh, never attempted to destroy their miserable lives so that he and the rest of the dragons could control all of Mundas. It was as if their brief period of reverence and thanks was enough of a payment all that she did and they no longer had to show her any honor or respect.

"I wish Alduin had killed them all," she hissed as she moved towards the weapons rack and grabbed an iron war axe and threw it at one of the dummies only to watch it fall short of its mark. Grabbing another axe, she tried again, throwing the weapon with all of her strength and anger only to see it fly past the dummy and clatter against the wall.

"Am I that weak that I can't even hit a practice dummy?" she yelled out in disgust as she reached for another weapon. This time, she picked up a steel sword and dagger, gripping their worn leather handles tightly so that it pulled at her soft skin. There was a time when the touch of anything on her hands would have been nothing more than a dull sensation of pressure due to the thick calluses that had covered them. Yet it had been years since she had really taken up a weapon, her hands becoming as smooth as the cool glass bottles that had replaced the leather and steel blades.

Closing her eyes, she let the familiar weight of the sword in her right hand as she tested her arm with a few clumsy movements in the air. She felt the immediate strain in her shoulder, a hot warmth aching through the joint as she demanded her alcohol-filled muscles to lift more than a bottle to her mouth. Yet she didn't care about the pain or discomfort as she thought about the humiliation she suffered the past few days. She saw Lydia rejecting her oath and abandoning her to the Companions. Then, she saw Vilkas' face laughing at her as the disgusting feeling of shit mixed with urine dripping down her face made her want to vomit. After that came Aela with her taunting yellow eyes, Hulda and her broom, the old woman and their smart little remarks, and the children with their stupid laughs.

"I'll show them I'm not some washed up ruin. If they want the Dragonborn, I'll give it to them," she muttered angrily as she lifted her weapons into a fighting position. Moving her left arm in what use to be familiar patterns, jabbing her blades into empty space, she felt her anger slowly fade into determination as she acknowledge something that had once been an integral part of her life.

Even before Skyrim, swords and other weapons had consumed her very being as she apprenticed her father at their forge in Bruma. Although she had not mastered how to handle a weapon in combat until some time after her flight to Skyrim and the discovery of her being the Dragonborn, she had always a respect and appreciation for the sharpness of a blade and the potential power behind its heavy weight. As time progressed and she had gained experience and skill with a sword and dagger, she aquired an even more intimate understanding of the steel or iron that she carried. She could feel her blade's craftsmanship in its balance as she held them in the air. She was instinctually able to know if a sword would be able to move freely through an enemy through the feel of the blade's smooth surface, her calloused hands immune to many sensations but somehow able to find the smallest flaw in forged metal.

It was a rudimentary form of this instinctual knowledge of the blades that her father had often praised in her youth, claiming that her prodigious work was nearly better than his own. Whether that was true or just the words of a kind father to his youngest daughter, Elsa never knew, but there was no denying that she had once had the uncanny ability to sense the strengths and weaknesses in a blade, allowing her to quickly learn and begin to master the skills that were necessary in her role as the Dragonborn.

Opening her eyes, she looked at the chipped and worn weapons she held and saw something of herself in them. They probably once had been functional, doing their life's work without question until one day someone had damaged them and cast them aside so that they could rust and deteriorate in a dark corner out of sight. Just as the weapons had lost their shine and sharpness, she had grown thin and weak, her once toned arms and legs looking like nothing more than small sticks with thin flesh covering the malnourished and brittle bones. Her hands had grown soft with lack of use, her hair lank and dull as she stopped caring for herself and swallowed up her sweet poison that stole the life and shine from her pale blue eyes. For a moment, she saw herself for what she was, before she pushed it to the back of her mind as she had been doing for years. Sobriety and the memories that it would bring was far more frightening than her deterioration.

_Enough of this,_ she thought resolutely moving towards one of the man-shaped straw dummies that had a red target painted carefully on its belly. Taking a quick step forward, she slashed her sword towards the straw, the blade making contact and flying out of her loose grip.

"Shit," she spat as the sword clattered loudly against the grey stones of the hall. Her mouth formed a thin line as she recovered the blade and turned back towards the dummy, her hand tightening around the hilt so strongly that the leather began to bite and pull at her skin. Swinging her right arm again, she felt the sword slash into the straw man's shoulder, the dull blade vibrating on the wood that held it up. She felt her hands tear open as the leather twisted and moved with the vibrations, her stubbornness alone forcing her weak muscles to cling to the blade.

Raising the weapon up, her arm dropped to her side in exhaustion, the skin bright red as her blood coursed to the starving muscles. "Enough of that for today," she said to no one in particular, setting the sword back in its rack.

"Now for you," she continued, holding the dagger still in her left hand, its small size feeling welcomed after the weight of the sword. Moving back to the dummy, she began to jab at its stomach, her legs bending and shaking as they held the low stance of a rogue warrior while her body twisted and turned stiffly. She could feel in her motions that she had lost the grace and speed she had once possessed, her attacks awkwardly hitting the dummy so shallowly that had it been armor instead of straw she would have lost her blade and her life almost immediately. It made her angry that her limbs weren't responding as they use to, that her balance seemed off and her legs were constantly having to correct for her small wobbles rather than give power to her thrusts.

"Gods damn it!" she finally yelled after a small blow that tore the dagger from her hand, the sweaty leather taking a good piece of skin with it. Looking down, she angrily considered her blood hands. They shook even without the weight of weapons as years of drinking heavily had taken its toll on her young nerves. Her fingers had grown thin and bony, the knuckles bulging out along the length instead of being padded by the small muscles necessary for fine control and movement. Turning them over, she ignored the stinging pain from her opened palms and looked at the four tight tendons that moved from her wrist to her fingers, a feeling of disgust filling her at how prominent they looked under her unconditioned skin.

For a moment she thought of what her hands use to be. They were instruments of power, strong and hard from apprenticing with her father while growing up. The muscles she had developed had given her a grip that was envious to many men and was distasteful to those that wished for something more ladylike from her. She never minded the rough strength, though, or the tiny scars from free flying embers that had burned into her skin over the years. It had been their course appearance that had helped her over the years to establish herself in the man's world of smithing and, more recently, into the world of a hero-warrior with the blood of a god.

Yet whatever they were, her hands no longer appeared to be anything beyond some worthless bone and skin. Flinging them to her sides, she closed her fists and let the sticky feeling of sweat and blood press against her fingers while the sharp sting from the open blisters drowned out the disgusted anger she was feeling at her weakness.

Moving towards a table that sat in the corner, she grabbed one of the many cups of stale and molding ale and threw it down her throat as unwanted thoughts of what she use to be ultimately led to thoughts of those that use to be with her. As the memories and thoughts swirled around her head and mixed with the pain and fatigue she felt, she continued to drain cup after cup until a sweet blackness covered her eyes and drunkenness claimed her mind and body.

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><p><strong>Again, please take the time to leave a review. Everything is appreciated!<strong>


	10. Uncertain Paths

**AN: First off, some great reviews this last time around, not just for the previous chapter but the others as well. I believe I responded to each individually, but I would like to say a special thanks to DualKatanas for the continued reviews and to Y-ko, who brought up some good points that will be addressed in this chapter to a small degree. To any I didn't respond to, I'm sorry, but know that I appreciated your words.**

**Also, I have my own views on werewolves that are very different than many. Mainly that their senses would be akin to that of a regular wolf, including limitations. So before anyone complains, in my story werewolves do NOT possess super human senses across the board.**

**Finally, a much needed apology from me should be mentioned. I definitely try to update regularly, but as things got a little crazy between school, clinic, work, and it being summer I have not really had the time to write. I will do my best to be better this fall, but check my profile on updates on where I'm at if there is a lapse.**

**Happy reading (and reviewing)!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

Vilkas woke just minutes before Skjor, giving him very little time to clear the heaviness from his eyes and the muddled feeling in his head. His sleep had been dreamless, but the days hard run after a night of troubled sleep had taken its toll, leaving the few hours of rest in the inn barely enough to ease some of the weariness from his muscles. Rubbing his eyes roughly, he began to put on his armor with the thoughtless ease that years of living by the sword had given him.

"A den full of vampires ahead of us today," Skjor started as he lumbered from his bed at the inn and began to dress. "Are you sure you want to face them as a man? A wolf would be so much more affective…" he trailed off while glancing towards the younger man.

"I'm sure," Vilkas replied sternly. "We will do this as we do every other job. I will use my bow until we are noticed and then both of us to swords."

"Still, a whole cave of vampires. Seems stupid to not use our strongest weapon," Skjor complained as he pulled on his boots and stood.

"Don't tell me that a mighty warrior like you fears the strength of his own arm won't be enough for a few undead beasts!" he mocked at his shield-brother, his icy eyes sparkling in amusement as the older man's face twisted into a wild snarl.

"I have no concerns about my arm and you should know that," he snapped. "I just don't see why there's a need to do things the hard way except that you have let Kodlak's fears get the best of you."

"It's not his fears that have gotten to me, Skjor," he started as he pulled out his blade and checked its sharpness. "It's his dreams of Sovngarde and my own weariness of the constant pull of a Daedra's curse. I should be a man as the gods made me and not have to fight a savage beast for control of my own body."

"You never had complaints about it before," the old warrior said as they made their way from their room and out of the inn, pausing only to grab some bread to be shared on the way to the cave. "I remember when you use to spend just as much time as a beast as Aela did. You had no shame over what you were then."

"I was young and foolish," Vilkas replied through a few quiet bites of their bland breakfast, breathing in the cool, frost-filled air that lacked the little warmth the sun would provide it once it rose. "Strength, speed, and glory was all I thought about back then. I now understand things at my age that I didn't when I was eighteen and new to the blood."

"Thirty-five is hardly an _age_, boy. When you get to my years you can talk about what you understand and what you don't. You are still living for stupid ideals that Kodlak has filled your mind with. Give it time and you'll see that in the end it doesn't matter if you were a man or a wolf, so long as you did your job and got away with your skin," Skjor lectured as they moved through the empty streets and out of the city.

Vilkas let out a long sigh, knowing that no matter what he said there would be no convincing Skjor. The beast blood was hot in his veins and had been a part of him for decades longer than it had been in him. He could only imagine how twisted the spirit of Hircine must be in Skjor's weathered body.

_He probably doesn't even see the wolf as being a separate creature anymore,_ he realized with a heavy sense of sadness. With how often the older warrior changed it was a wonder that the beast had not become the dominant personality, guiding its host to act outside the confines of intellect or self-control. Glancing over at his companion and watching his determined steps that were only interrupted by quick glances and sharp sniffs into the air he couldn't suppress the thought that maybe the beast already had control.

"This must be it," Skjor suddenly said, stopping abruptly near a rocky hill that sat uncomfortably close to the unkempt path. "I can smell dead flesh."

"How many do you think there are?" he asked as they cautiously began to circle around the stony hill in search of the entrance.

"Not sure. There's some other scent mixed in there with them. You try. You have the better nose," his companion answered gruffly, giving him a hard look that showed no patience for any talk of not using the gifts the blood gave them.

"Fine," he answered, closing his eyes to dampen the distractions of his other senses. Drawing in a deep breath at first all he smelled was the spicy aroma of spruce trees and the dry scent of dying grass. Pushing these away, he was left with tanginess of metal and stone and the ever-present taste of the impending winter. _None of those,_ he told himself as he consciously fought to find the quieter scents that lay hidden away under the earth in the cave.

It was difficult to pick his way around the more dominant scents that permeated the marshy region, but for years he had trained his mind to flesh through the chaos of smells in order to identify even the most slight of aromas. After a few moments of straining he finally was able to make out the stink of rotting mixed with iron that marked a vampire. Concentrating on the stench he searched for the little differences and nuisances that would distinguish one vampire from another. "There are eight I can distinguish, but there might be as many as ten."

"Ten? Are you sure?" Skjor asked, his face becoming a hard line. "Thonnir only thought there were three and six thralls."

"There are two thralls and a few recently dead bodies," Vilkas answered, opening his eyes. "But there are definitely eight vampires in there."

"Can you tell how old?"

Vilkas thought for a moment, letting his mind play with the linger smell that tickled his nose and sat on his tongue like acid. A funny thing that he had noticed with vampires is that they seemed to smell less as they aged. It was as if the flesh lost all of its natural properties, including its desire to breakdown and rot in death. Only a very young vampire reeked like bad eggs while an older monster seemed to only carry the scent of their victim's blood, their perfume of rot barely hanging onto their skin.

"Most are young. They couldn't have been infected more than a few years ago. One might be a few decades old."

"Think it's a master?" Skjor pressed as they continued their way around the cave.

"No, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious," he returned.

"We wouldn't need caution if Kodlak hadn't blinded you," the older warrior muttered darkly as they finally reached a craggy opening in the rocky hill that marked the entrance of a cave.

Vilkas gave him a sharp look, but kept his lips firmly shut as he drew his bow and walked quietly into the darkness. It was a comfortable routine he had developed with the older man. Skjor, favoring close combat whether with a sword or in his wolf form had little patience for thinning out threats through stealth and a bow. Vilkas often thought it was one of the reasons the older warrior and Aela matched each other so well. Both had a love for the beast inside of them and each possessed skills starkly different from the other making their battles together appear like a deadly dance that their enemies could not escape. It was almost as if the monsters inside of them were able to communicate even when in human form through a quick look or a small noise that made Skjor's blade swing with the same consciousness that controlled Aela's arrows. It was a beautiful and terrifying thing to behold.

Although the Huntress was Skjor's obvious favorite shield sibling, Vilkas was able to fill in her role when she was otherwise occupied. His adolescence spent being the smaller and physically weaker of the twins had forced him to learn and master a different set of skills than his brother, making his talent with the bow the second best in Jorrvaskr. It was an achievement he was very proud of, especially as he led their slow creep down a craggy slope slick with moss and cobwebs.

"Bloodsuckers scare everything off. Even the spiders are gone," Skjor muttered softly behind him as they passed through a mess of thick, abandoned webs.

"They have more sense than men and mer," Vilkas answered quickly, holding an arrow ready to be drawn as the ground leveled out into a small cavern that was covered with the broken remains of whatever it was the spiders had last eaten. _Much smarter than men and mer,_ he thought to himself as he quickly shuffled towards a rough opening in the cave's stone wall that surely led deeper into the earth.

Taking a deep breath, he entered into the blackness of the jagged path until they were surrounded by nothing but utter darkness. An ordinary man would have been complete blind in the cramped passage, forced to grope at the damp walls and shuffle nosily in hesitation. But with abilities similar to those possessed by the wild wolves of Skyrim, they could navigate their world by a heightened sense of smell. This canine trait let all werewolves perceive the world through the linger scents of their prey and enemies, as well as their friends.

It was times like these that Vilkas was happy for the skill, as the wolf blood had largely damaged the sense most important to humans; sight. Unlike the boost Hircine's curse gave to scent, the blood had taken his ability to distinguish most colors in exchange for a slightly enhanced night vision. Oranges and reds appeared the same, as did green and yellow, making a once visually beautiful world lackluster to his cursed eyes.

_Damn this cursed blood,_ he thought for a moment as he recalled his memories of red roses mixed with orange tiger lilies and being able to notice a vibrant yellow mountain flower amongst the summers green grass.

_Yet you depend on the blood to navigate the dark, _a small, foreign voice whispered from behind his grumblings as he took another step forward. _You let the growing scent guide you and your ears tickle with the in anticipation of hearing your prey far sooner than any man would._

His stepped faltered as the words evaporated from his mind and a sense of dread filled him. But before he could deny the thought or even process who, or what, it was that had spoken inside his head Skjor's sword pressed slightly into his back with the silent question of why they were stopping. _Later, Vilkas, later,_ he order himself as he did his best to push away the cold feeling that still sat in his chest and continued forward.

Thankfully, they didn't have far to go before the stale air of the passage began to significantly lighten, marking an end to the tunnel and the beginning of what appeared to be a moderately sized cavern. _Damn eyes,_ he thought again as he tried to make out his surroundings as a human would, but was left with a vague sense of grey and black rocks jutting up from the floor and drooping from the ceiling. Reluctantly, he focused on the scents swirling in his nose and any unordinary sounds to _see_.

The first thing he noticed was that cavern was filled with rock salt most likely a result of the marshy home of the cave. He next quickly identified a musty smell similar to the passage they had just walked, marking it as an area to explore later. Finally, he let his mind mull over the more pressing odors of their contract and their two human thralls.

_Only six of them in here,_ he thought for a moment as he let their stench of decay and blood fill him with a mental image of their unmoving bodies lying peacefully near the opposite wall. Even the thralls appeared to be sleeping as their even breaths met Vilkas' waiting ears.

_Lucky_, he mused as he turned towards Skjor and set his hand on his arm. "I sense six, you?" he whispered as softly as possible so as not to wake the monsters prematurely.

"Six and the thralls," the older man answered in a barely audible breath. "Go ahead and shoot as many as possible. They might be able to see in the dark, but doesn't do them any good if their not looking."

Vilkas nodded and stepped further into the open cavern. From what he could tell there was no place to hide should the blood suckers choose to use magic, which made their position less than ideal. _But it's what you have, so make the best of it and kill what you can._

Drawing an arrow, he closed his eyes and let his nose guide his arm towards the nearest thrall. The human slaves weren't the biggest threat, but they were wild and distracting in battle, making their actions unpredictable. _Get them out of the way first and hope the monster's don't wake up_, he told himself as pulled back the tight string and released.

The soft twang of his bow and the whistle of the arrow still sang as he grabbed another and sent it flying towards the second thrall, followed immediately by a gurgled yell and the sounds of movement.

"Shit," Skjor spat as the noises of vampires moving, another man dying, and the static feeling of magic filled the cave, making it difficult to focus on one sound or scent to find their enemies.

Dropping his bow, Vilkas pulled out his heavy steel sword and gripped it tightly with both hands while Skjor let out a cry and rushed past him towards the noises. From somewhere in the darkness he heard a sharp, high-pitched laugh and the sound of iron hitting stone.

"Pathetic humans!" a voice called out, the sound echoing off the walls as a sudden blue light filled the darkness.

"Big mistake," Vilkas yelled as the light gave him enough time to see that four of the six vampires had Skjor surrounded, and though unarmed, were lunging towards him with their fangs and nails searching for his blood. The fifth fledgling was feeding off a dead thrall to the left of his nest-mates while the sixth was standing just to the right of the group with blue balls of electricity building in his hands.

Rushing forward, he sliced at the feeding vampire, severing its head from its body before it even had a chance to move. Turning, he moved towards Skjor just as a bolt of lightening struck where he had been standing.

"Kill it!" the older man yelled, as his sword slipped through one of the young vampire's torso, causing the other three to momentarily hesitate in their wild attacks before resuming.

Letting out a low growl, Vilkas darted forward with a speed not natural to man. The magic wielding vampire faltered slightly in his spell, the blue light waning as Vilkas lifted his sword into the air. For a moment, things seemed to stand still, the vampire's eyes darting about wildly while another fledgling that had broken away from the group surrounding Skjor screamed out from behind him. Focusing on his immediate enemy, Vilkas' blade cut downward and briefly met the resistance of the creature's bones and flesh, the world resumed its normal pacing just as the vampire's blue light went out and the cave was once more dark.

Pulling his sword back while breathing in deeply through his nose, Vilkas turned on heel and brought his sword across his body into a sideways slash at rotten smelling dark blob that had tried to sneak behind him. With a satisfying crunch and tug of resistance, he forced his muscles to continue the sword's course through the vampire until becoming lodged in its spine. He yanked his Skyforge steel from the now truly dead corpse and let it crumpled near his feet just as a different smell of decay began to fill his nose.

"The other four are coming," he called out to a large dark mass that had to be Skjor.

"I can smell them," the older warrior grunted out, his voice becoming more like a growl as the heat of the battle warmed his blood and pulled at the wolf inside.

"Stay in control," Vilkas warned as he sensed his companion's urge to change. "I don't want to be responsible for accidentally hitting you because you decide to tear one of their throats out."

Skjor made an unintelligible noise, but remained human much to Vilkas' relief. In the years of being a Companion, he had seen how warriors could draw blades and bows in harmony with one another, becoming two heads of a very deadly snake. The same was true, if not more so, when they changed and fought as a pack. It was as if the blood of Hircine that ran through them was connected on a level beyond their sensing that made it possible to anticipate the other's move flawlessly. But any synergy had as either man or beast was completely lost when they were not in the same form. He had seen others die by a shield sibling's hand because of this and he was not about to have that happen to him or Skjor.

Bracing himself, Vilkas' heart pounded loudly in the darkness as the smells moved closer from some passage or crevasse in the cave. Soon the scents mixed with a few soft noises that he would never have been able to hear had he been only human. It was the swoosh of cloth against rock and dirt, the rustle of shoes barely touching the ground as the beasts moved. The closer they approached the more he could distinguish their decaying musk, marking all four older than the six vampires they had just killed.

Suddenly the smells seemed overwhelming, causing his stomach to react and threaten to retch. The thought, _it's time_, filled his head just as instinct and experience told him to turn his blade perpendicular to his body and arc it out in a horizontal circle, a jolt running through his arms as the cavern filled with pained, angry screams and the sound of his shield sibling's sword ripping through metal armor.

Pulling his weapon free of the vampire he had struck, the cacophony of noise pounded his head and made it impossible to pinpoint his enemies. Feeling completely helpless, he moved towards what he thought was a vampire just as something hard hit him from behind. Stumbling forward, he desperately tried to regain his footing but the blow had been too strong. Without sight to guide his balance as a human he was filled with the sickening sense of his own death as his face hit the ground his sword clattering from his hand.

An inhuman cackle came from above him as the smell of rot plunged toward him when suddenly a growl boomed through the cavern and fur and wind grazed his face. "Skjor!" Vilkas heard himself shout as the smells and sounds of a wolf crushed into the space filled by decay, ripping and biting sounds adding to the noise.

Grasping for his sword, he crawled across the ground as the wolf moved silently by him to the final vampire and tearing its throat out. Snarls and a brief shriek sang for a moment followed by a definitive crunch and the noise of a beast feeding. Vilkas listened in an uneasy mixture of disgust and longing as he smelled blood from the vampire's victims seeping into the floor and could hear every bite and hurried gulp made by his friend and companion. _You could be doing the same, _the small voice that had been plaguing him taunted. _All you would have to do is let go. Let go and feel the warm blood on your fur, taste the flesh of your enemies-_

"No!" Vilkas shouted, causing Skjor's feeding to momentarily stop, the feeling of the wolf eyes lingering on him before turning back to his rapidly decomposing meal.

Feeling suddenly trapped by the thick darkness, he used his nose to guide him back the way he came, leaving the wolf to finish its feast alone. The cool air caused his skin to prickle as he blinked at the bright light upon reaching the cave's entrance, but he barely noticed as his stomach involuntarily retched up its small contents. He gripped the rough stone of the cave as his body curled over on itself, the smells of death, rot, blood, ash, and beast pushed down his nose so that he could taste it, making the beast inside him rumble with desire.

"What is happening to me?" he gasped while his body gave a final shake only to feel completely spent. He allowed himself to lean against the wall as he tried to understand the strange battle occurring inside of him. Despite giving up his transformations nearly a year ago he had not experienced anything like what he was feeling now. His mind felt clouded with a compulsion that threatened to break free of his weakening resistance. The dream two nights ago had lingered with him, giving him the uneasy feeling that someone or _something_ was watching him. "And that voice!" he called out, his stomach turning as he thought about the unnatural whispers of some foreign thing.

"What voice?" Skjor asked, his sudden presence at the entrance of the cave causing Vilkas to jump.

"What? Oh, nothing," Vilkas heard himself over the loud thumps of his startled heart.

The older man gave him a disbelieving look, but only fidgeted with his gauntlets in response. Silence settled between the two warriors for a few moments, allowing Vilkas to collect himself. The warm afternoon sun that drove out the cool air of the marshland helped ease some of the confusion he was feeling, his mind taking comfort in being able to see and focus on a tangible world rather than being trapped the blindness of the vampire's den.

"Well let's go get our pay and be on our way home," the old warrior finally said, setting a quick pace back towards Morthal without waiting for a reply.

Vilkas followed him in silence, glad that he was with the stoic Skjor rather than one of the chatty Companions, like Ria or Njada. He needed time to straighten his thoughts and regain control of the fear that was slowly building in him at the strange voice that had been plaguing them. As they entered the quiet town, he was more than happy to let Skjor ask around for Thonnir so they could get their pay and leave. He barely listened as some men at the mill pointed them towards the town alchemist where their employer was suppose to be making a delivery of wood. They moved down the wooden walkways that circled around the swampy lake at the center of the town with quick purpose towards the small sign that hung from the door of the alchemist.

"I think I'm going to wait out here while you talk to Thonnir," Vilkas said quietly as they reached the shop.

Skjor gave him a quick look but only nodded as he entered the shop, leaving his shield-sibling alone with the peaceful sounds of Morthal.

Vilkas stared for a moment at the lake, taking in the peaceful ripples of its water before he sat wearily on one of the benches near the alchemist's shop. It had been a long day and he was more than happy to let his mind focus on things that had nothing to do with him, the beast blood, or the strange demanding voice. He watched a group of children with sticks poke at some chickens until an old woman came out from a nearby house and scolded them. He then turned his attention to a loud discussion being had by two traders about what deals they had found in which cities for the supplies they carried with them. After that his attention was on a young woman, weaving her way slowly and deliberately through the city with a large basket, her hips swaying in a way that rudely reminded him how long it had been since he had enjoyed a woman.

Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander to the warm thoughts of what the young woman would be like lying next to him in bed when a pair of strange sounding voices filled his ears. From the softness, he couldn't quite tell what was off about them but there was _something_ that just didn't seem right. Sitting up slightly, he strained towards the sounds coming from the back side of the building, finally distinguishing the slight flatness of speech that was more common to Riften than the marshes.

_That's strange_, he thought as the sounds grew closer and louder with their owner's movements towards the main part of the town, making their dialect all the more obvious. He felt his guard go up as he began to pick out words of their conversation, his immediate thought running to the band of thieves and criminals that ran the town. _What are they doing here?_ He wondered, needing only to wait a few more seconds before the pair of men moved close enough that every word was easily understandable.

"They supposedly took care of the vampires already," came one of the voices, its dark, rumbling tone sounding angry.

"Too bad they didn't finish each other off, save us some time," the raspier voice replied. "Damn werewolves, probably worse than the vampires are. At least the blood suckers can't go out in the middle of the day."

"Krev has the right idea about what to do with them," the deep voice replied. "Make them watch while taking their pelts off their fucking bodies! Now that's Silver Hand through and through!"

Vilkas felt his the blood drain from his face at the name of Krev and mention of the Silver Hand. He had just taken the blood when he first encountered the group of bandits that had once hunted Hircine's chosen. He had gone out with Skjor on a simple mission when they were jumped by the ruthless outlaws, their silver weapons giving him the large scar running down his thigh. They had been violent group, made ruthless by their leader Krev the Skinner, but eventually the Companions had destroyed them.

_ But you didn't kill Krev,_ the strange voice whispered to him, mocking him in his attempts to discount what he heard.

"The boss won't like that we let the beasts get to the blood suckers first," the deeper voice said, followed by his large, fleshy face appearing around the corner of the shops.

"He'll just have to get over it," answered the raspy voice belonging to a small, rat-faced man. "He will just have to…" the man trailed off, his eyes squinting as they fell on Vilkas.

Had the two men from Riften not been armed with silver weapons or belonged to a group that somehow knew the Companions' secret, it would have been comical the changes in the smaller man's face as he recognized the wolf armor worn by the guild's elite. Vilkas might have even laughed as his face went white and blank, to red and angry had he not been consumed by an overwhelming sense of survival along with the voice whispering _kill them. Kill them both._ Drawing his sword, he rushed the men before they were even able to touch their weapons. In fact, the larger man barely seemed to realize what was happening until his friend's body was lifted in the air by the force of Vilkas' killing blow.

"Ahhh!" the brutish man yelled, moving for his mace as Vilkas freed his blade and spun, his blade sweeping through the air until is was nestled neatly halfway through the man's torso.

_Good, Vilkas, good,_ the voice sang in his head as the men's blood spilled on the wooden walkway in front of Morthal's shops. Around him he could hear screaming, no doubt coming from the children that had been playing nearby.

"By the gods! What has happened here?" came the shout of a guard as Vilkas slowly broke free of the haze that seemed to have covered his eyes and ears after seeing the two men. He felt nauseas as the world became clear again and consciously realized what he had done.

_You only did what you had too,_ the voice cooed in his head. _You only did what your blood demanded_.

He felt himself shudder as the guard moved towards him with his sword drawn in case of trouble. From behind him he could hear the familiar steps of Skjor and a slamming door, marking that he had back up should he need it.

"These men were wanted outlaws," he lied quickly, sheathing his sword to show good faith. "They were from Riften and drew their weapons when I confronted them."

"Is that so?" the guard replied skeptically, moving closer and looking at the dead men.

"It is," Skjor called from where he stood. "We're with the Companions. Riften's Jarl had a contract out for their return. Dead or alive."

The guard looked back towards Skjor and then to Vilkas, his eyes showing that though he doubted their story, he was willing to believe their lie should it benefit him. "Well that may be, but these bodies won't bury themselves."

"Here," Skjor said, stepping forward and holding out a few gold pieces. "Use these and do what must be done."

The guard greedily took up the coins and gave the two Companions a quick nod. "You best be on your way if your business here is done."

"We were just on our way out," Vilkas said, moving away from his kills, motioning for Skjor to join him.

Setting a quick pace, they moved from the city and out into the wilderness in a tense silence. It wasn't until Morthal was well behind them that Skjor finally stopped their march. "What the hell was that?"

"We are in trouble, Skjor," Vilkas answered, his hand drifting to the growth of hair on his chin, rubbing it wearily.

"I say. I didn't know the Companions slaughtered men in the middle of a town! Especially when they are not even involved with the contract we're on!" the older warrior snarled, his eyes showing how angry he was at finding his shield-sibling standing in a pool of blood, the guard up in arms, and people screaming. "I thought we were better than a bunch of undisciplined swords."

Shame filled Vilkas at his elder's words. It didn't matter that he was an equal Skjor as a member of the Circle, the older warrior was right and his actions had been wrong. But how could he explain the overwhelming _need_ that had filled him upon hearing who those men were? How could he even begin to explain the rush of blood that caused his legs and arms to move before his mind? How could he explain the voice that had urged him forward before he even realized it was speaking?

Shaking his head, he decided there was nothing to do but tell his brother-in-arms the simplest truth of what happened. "Skjor," he started, his tone dark as he prepared to bring him the disturbing news. "Those men were Silver Hand."

"What? That's impossible."

"It's not," he answered. "I heard them talk about being sent to Morthal to deal with vampires. They were complaining that a bunch of wolves got there first. Then they mentioned Krev and the Silver Hand," he finished in a rush. "If what they say is true, we have a problem."

Skjor stared at Vilkas for a moment before turning away and swearing loudly. "This could not come at a worse time,"

"Is there any good time for this?" Vilkas asked, watching his friend pace around on the path, his hands moving across his bald head.

"No, but with Kodlak acting how he is…." He trailed off, his frown deepening. "I hope you understand that you can't keep up your ridiculous refusal to change if the Silver Hand has returned. We will need all the power we can get to wipe them out for good, which means changing."

"I don't need to change to have power," Vilkas answered darkly. "I will not go back on my word to Kodlak."

"Kodlak is being foolish and ungrateful!" Skjor shouted suddenly, his face growing red. "Why can't you see that?"

"Kodlak is _not _a fool or ungrateful. He recognizes this as what it is. A curse!" he snapped in frustration.

"Then you tell me what normal human man you know can survive the rot for nearly fifty years," Skjor barked.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you know anything, _boy?_" Skjor answered with impatient disapproving. "The blood keeps you from disease. _Hircine_ keeps _us_ from disease. Kodlak took the blood when he had that fucking disease and it's only because of the blood that it hasn't killed him. He's ungrateful."

"And if he hadn't taken the blood a normal potion or spell would have worked on his body and kept him from death," Vilkas retorted, his temper making it hard to keep his voice even.

"Fine!" the older warrior yelled, "_Fine_. Have it your way. You have no idea what it was like when the Hand had hundreds in its rank. It took us years to kill them and cost the lives of several of our best fighters. And _they_ were willing to use their gifts!"

"We can kill them even if Farkas, Kodlak, and myself refuse to change. Or do you doubt your own skill as a man?"

"I don't doubt my hand, _boy. _I do doubt that five of us will be able to handle more than a few camps of the Hand if Krev has managed to build up their ranks again."

Vilkas stared at Skjor, shocked at the man's blunt and dark words. Never before had the older man ever doubted the power of the Companions, even all those years ago when they had last fought Krev's group of bandits.

"Let's get back to Jorrvaskr so you can tell Kodlak your news," Skjor grumbled.

"Yes," Vilkas answered, the uneasy feeling from earlier bubbling back up in his stomach. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>Lydia walked about Riverwood without any sense of direction or purpose and it was driving her mad. <em>How do people do this?<em> _How can they just do menial tasks and actually be happy?_

It was just a few of the many questions that had filled her mind since taking a _vacation_ in the small logging village. At first the idea of peace and quiet without having to clean up someone else's mess had been appealing. She let herself believe that not being tied to Elsa would mean less stress, less bitterness, and, most importantly, more time with Farkas. Yet none of that seemed to be true as she circled the little village for the sixth or seventh time that morning searching for something to do or to occupy her mind with.

As she started to make her small circuit for an eight time she noticed a small group of the villagers packed near the inn entrance, listening to someone with some sort of news. Approaching the crowd she could make out small laughs and gasps of shock followed by the clear voice of Camilla, a small imperial woman who ran a shop with her brother. By the small sneer covering her painted lips, Lydia already knew that she probably wouldn't like what was being said, a sinking feeling filling her.

"You may not want to hear this," came a familiar tenor to her left that she had hoped to avoid. Turning she met the murky blue eyes of Ralof, reading his concern and frustration at the gossip, reminding the displaced housecarl of years of both happy and sad memories from a time when the world seemed to be nearing its end.

"Elsa?" Lydia asked the former Stormcloak soldier who had been instrumental in securing the Dragonborn's survival when she had first arrived in Skyrim. Although she hadn't been there when it happened, from the way her Thane told it Ralof had guided her away from the chaos of a dragon attack on the small villiage of Helgen and then led her safely to the very town she now stood in. Elsa had stayed with the young soldier and his sister for a spell before moving onto Whiterun and finding her fate.

Yet, even after rising in the ranks of titles and fame, the young Thane had always returned to Riverwood to visit with her first friend in what quickly became her country. The visits were always happy enough, but Lydia had always wondered if Ralof had felt more for the Dragonborn than a pure friend would. There had always been a hint of longing in his heavily browed eyes that waited only for a hint of interest from the young Nord from Cyrodiil. Elsa, though, had never showed that level of interest in her old friend despite Ralof's large frame, squared shoulders, and long blonde hair made him a very worthy as a potential husband.

_It would have been better that she had chosen him,_ she thought sadly as she still saw a remnant of his former feelings in his eyes despite being recently married and having an infant son. Shaking the impossible thought from her head she sighed and braced herself for what she could only assume was bad news. "What is she saying?"

Ralof shook his head, the small braid near the front of his hair swaying around his square jaw and broad nose. "It seems Elsa attacked the Jarl," he answered as Camilla's laugh rang out over the crowd at something someone had said. "I hate that woman," he seethed through a clenched jaw. "Damn Imperials always taking pleasure in other's misfortune. They should have all been driven from Skyrim when High King Ulfric won the throne."

Lydia barely heard his grumbling as she tried to process the magnitude of Ralof's words. Elsa attacked the Jarl. She most certainly was in prison and who knows what her sentence might be. "I have to go to her," she said suddenly, pulling away from the crowd with the former soldier quickly following her.

"Lydia, let me help," he said simply, concern filling his words and guiding his actions.

"No, Ralof," she said quickly. "You have a family and responsibilities here. _My_ responsibility is Elsa and I need to go to her. It was a mistake to even try to get her sober."

"Has it really gotten that bad?" he asked as they moved from the Sleeping Giant Inn towards the small stone bridge that connected Riverwood to the road to Whiterun. "I have heard the stories and rumors but I thought that it couldn't be that bad. My Elsa would never –" he trailed off, a distant look covering his eyes.

"If only she truly had been yours, maybe she wouldn't have become this way," she answered, gently resting her hand on his shoulder and feeling his thick muscles shiver as he sighed. "She does not have a better friend in her life than what you have been to her."

"I wonder at times if we really are friends," he muttered, his voice shaking with the sadness that comes with unfulfilled hopes. "She has not been to Riverwood in nearly six years and hasn't answered my letters in nearly five."

"Don't doubt the bond you two share," Lydia answered quickly, "Shame keeps her from seeing you, nothing more."

As he sighed his doubts, hopes, and frustrations, she couldn't help but notice how many lines had dug their way into his strong features. Probably no older than she was, he suddenly looked as weary of the world and its troubles as an old man would on his deathbed. There was no doubt that tragedy lined the soldier's life after seeing countless of his comrades die, watch his world be ravaged by dragons, and having to stand idly by and act happy while the woman he clearly loved gave her affections to another man. _And even all these years later, he still holds out hope_.

"Ralof, she doesn't deserve someone like you," she said, breaking the pensive silence that had fallen between them. "Go and be happy with your wife and your child. Don't squander the joy of a family on her."

Setting his jaw, he gave her a stony look before turning back towards the village and a life that she could see was far from the one he had dreamed of. "Anything you need, you know where to find me."

Letting out her own sigh, Lydia watched his progress until he disappeared behind the houses and shops, leaving her alone to deal with the woman that linked them. _None of our hopes and dreams survived the death of the world that was controlled by Emperors and dragons,_ she thought as the towering pines and sturdy maples that surrounded Riverwood were quickly replaced by the open, rocky plains that were typical of the Hold.

She let her feet take her along the familiar path while her mind lingered in the past, remembering the darkness and fear that they had lived through, wondering whether any of it was worth what they had lost. In hindsight, she knew she had been little more than girl when Ulfric Stormcloak had started his war by using his voice to murder the king. Though, at the time, she believed herself a woman at twenty she had been little more than a well-trained fighter with the discipline that came from being a guard's daughter. Even her position as a housecarl was partially earned on her father's name rather than her credentials. _But our quality soon showed,_ she smiled to herself as she thought of some of the whispers she heard regarding her age and lack of experience which grew only worse when she was assigned to serve a sixteen year old girl that, though a Nord, was not even from Skyrim.

Her smile grew as she let her eyes drift from the landscape and fill with the image of a young girl with shoulders and arms that appeared too big for her otherwise lean body. It had been thirteen years since she met her mistress that still had the soft cheeks and small curves that were more childlike than womanly. Lydia had loathed those first few months of having to serve not only a foreigner, but a girl that seemed to lack the discipline any true warrior had over their weapons. It wasn't until the young Thane saved her life with her seemingly erratic methods that Lydia began to look at the girl in a different light. In the years that followed, Elsa had grown to be more than a duty, but a friend and even, perhaps, something more akin to a younger sister.

Yet, those happy memories quickly dissolved as the walls of Whiterun grew closer and closer, until the noises and smells of the city overpowered the rushing sound of the river and the whistle of the wind. The bitter taste of shame filled her mouth as she braced herself for the whispers and stares that came with being the housecarl of a worthless Thane. It didn't matter that she did not partake in the same weaknesses as Elsa. A housecarl's success was based on the triumphs, glory, and honor of their master and it was clear to any that lived in Whiterun that the Dragonborn was anything but honorable.

_Just hold your head high and walk quickly_, she told herself as she pushed through the gates, ignoring the curt greetings of the soldiers that guarded them. Yet as she strode up the sloping main street of the city that was lined with sturdy wooden shops and thatched-roofed houses, she barely saw a single soul. Still, it wasn't until she had made it through the Plains District of the city, that was primarily made up of the city gate, and into the abandoned main market square of the Wind District that she began to feel uneasy.

"Where is everybody?" she asked aloud as she openly gawked at the empty market that was usually teeming with travelers and citizens during the afternoon hours. In fact, the only times she had seen the market empty during the day was during a dragon attack, the Stormcloak invasion during the civil war, and when the Jarl publically executed a criminal up in Dragonsreach.

_By the gods, don't let this be for Elsa,_ she begged frantically as she started a quick jog up the steps into the equally abandoned square outside Jorrvaskr and Talos' shrine. Fear began to twist uneasily in her stomach while she darted up the three flights of ancient stairs to the highest point of the city, Dragonsreach.

"Greetings, housecarl," one of the guards said, stepping towards her as she sped over the wooden bridge leading to the castle's looming doors.

"Greetings," she replied curtly, slowing slightly at the excited look on the young soldier's face.

"Are you here for the public session?" he asked, his muddy eyes sparkling with curiosity and intrigue.

"What public session?" she snapped, her worries growing at yet another oddity in what should have been a typical afternoon in Whiterun.

"The Jarl is holding a public session to hear complaints about the Dragonborn," the soldier said quickly. "Almost the entire town showed up so they had to move it to the Great Porch instead of the main hall just to fit more people."

"When did it start?"

"Three hours ago," the soldier answered.

Lydia nodded her thanks to the soldier as she started towards the doors again. She didn't dare even acknowledge the thoughts of all the different complaints the people of Whiterun could lodge against their Thane. A fraction of Elsa's belligerent acts and dishonorable behavior would be enough to sway most Jarls in expelling her from the city if she were not the Dragonborn. _But this time she attacked the Jarl,_ a rebellious voice rang through her mind, making her mistress' situation more precarious than ever before.

_You must find someone to speak for her,_ she told herself as she pushed through the doors of the castle, only to find most of the main hall filled with both familiar and strange faces that were craning towards the stairs that led to the antechamber of the Great Porch. Passing by a flock of children belonging to a few of the guards, Lydia mentally noted the presence of Erik, the owner of the Frostfruit Inn in Rorikstead, along with a few of the guards that patrolled there. There was also the all too familiar faces of Sabjorn of the Honningbrew Meadery and the seven men he had working under him, most of the farmers and their families that lived on the plains outside of the city walls, and even the priests and priestesses of Kynareth's Temple from the Cloud District.

Brushing past them without lingering on the money Elsa owed people or the things she destroyed in their establishments, Lydia refused to meet the eyes some of the old gossips of the town who were complaining bitterly of their inability to see when she pushed her way towards the porch and the incoherent shouts that were drifting over the tightly packed crowd. She sent a silent prayer to the gods that the Jarl hadn't done his sentencing yet as she nudged her way through a group of guards who were doing their best to keep more people from pushing their way onto the porch. Thankfully, her role as housecarl allowed her to pass through without much fuss so that at long last she was standing just inside the massive stone balcony with its long overhang with the majority of Whiterun's merchants, nobles, and the members of the Companions.

_By the gods,_ she thought as she took in the lines of guards encircling a small wooden platform that sat in the middle of the room. The Jarl stood dignified at its center, a look of anger and frustration lining his tanned face. From behind him a loud rush of wind could be heard from the opening that overlooked the cliff on which Dragonsreach stood, giving the entire tense scene an air of danger.

"I have heard enough complaints about her debts," the Jarl suddenly boomed out, the authority of his voice being enough to quiet most of the noise of the still rumbling crowd though not the screams of the wind. He was wearing a set of fine green robes that normally would have made him dignified, had it not been for the line of armed soldiers that stood behind him to make him appear more menacing than anything else. "If you are seeking compensation you will find none since she has nothing to her name."

The crowd began to rumble again as angry voices around her started to shout their frustrations. Lydia understood their feelings and could even empathize at some of the comments on her mistress' disregard and disrespect for people, but it made it no easier to hear on such a grand scale. Looking up at the platform that must have been quickly constructed that morning for the proceedings, she watched as Vignar spoke to his advisors trying to catch a hint of what he was going to do. It was only then that she noticed her Thane sitting shackled to a chair, behind a the line of guards, her head bowed and unmoving.

_I have failed her_, Lydia thought not for the first time as the mental image of the lively sixteen year old from earlier was destroyed by the wan and sickly appearance of the twenty-nine year old Dragonborn. She couldn't bring herself to move any further as the horrible images of what her Thane was and used to be clashed violently. Elsa's once long, thick blonde hair was lank and dull, looking more like week-old grease from cooked rashers than the soft yellow-white of crushed corn flour. Her body was weak where once it had been youthful and strong. With her hunched shoulders, thin skin, wasted muscles, and eyes empty of everything but hatred, her friend was nothing more than a walking corpse, waiting for the sweet release of death.

"Now, there are enough complaints to warrant exile from the Hold unless there is someone willing to speak for this woman," Vignar boomed again, his voice commanding a relative silence from the crowd.

Lydia felt her heart sink as a tense hush built over the mob, no one daring to speak lest it be thought that they would tie their fate to the ruin that was Elsa. _I'm too late, _she thought bitterly as the silence grew and time seemed to slow. If no one spoke for her, she would be banished from the last hold in Skyrim that welcomed her, effectively making her an exile of the whole province. _And she will die if she is forced to leave Skyrim_.

Just as hope seemed to be gone, a heavy voice called out from the crowd, "I will speak for her."

"Who speaks?" Vignar called out over the gasps that filled the hall. "Who is pledging their honor for this woman?"

"I do," came the voice again, slowly followed by the enormous body of Eorlund Gray-Mane climbing onto the stage. "I will speak for Elsa Fire-Storm."

All around Lydia the people of the hold began to whisper their disbelief as the Jarl's younger brother put not only his own honor on the line, but the proud reputation of his family name.

Vignar's face wrinkled at his brother's bold decision. "Are you sure you want to do this? Her actions will be your responsibility."

"She saved my son's life," the renowned smith answered strongly. "And as you know, brother, a Gray-Mane does not forget their debts."

"No, they certainly don't," the Jarl nodded, his own leniency to the drunken Dragonborn's behavior stemming from her vital part in his ascension to the throne. Waving his brother towards him, they soon were bent over in a quiet exchange while the hall looked on in anxious curiosity.

Lydia, though, cared little for what they were saying as long as it meant her Thane could remain in Whiterun. _If she is forced to leave it is because I abandoned my duty,_ her rebellious mind whispered. _The Empire will destroy her after her role in the civil war. Exile will mean death_.

"It has been decided!" the Jarl suddenly shouted out, causing the waves of whispers to quiet in anticipation. "Elsa Fire-Storm, Thane of Whiterun, Dragonborn, will be allowed to live under the care of Eorlund Gray-Mane so long as she does not commit another indiscretion." Turning to where Elsa still sat unmoving, he softened his voice slightly before continuing. "This is your final chance. Should you prove worthy in Eorlund's care, you will be allowed to return to training with the Companions by the word of Kodlak Whiteman, Harbinger. From there, you will repay your debts to those in the Hold and regain your status of Thane. Should you fail your titles will be stripped, your property divided amongst your debtors, and you shall be cast out of the Whiterun Hold for the rest of your days."

Elsa didn't move with the Jarl's words and barely flinched when the soldiers quickly moved to unbind her hands and feet at one smooth motion by Vignar. Eorlund walked towards his motionless ward, speaking a few soft words to her before finally pulling her to her feet. The crowd began to grow louder and angrier at the soft action that was being taken out on their former Thane, as the Skyforge's smith and his new apprentice made their way form the hall.

"That my life blood flows to protect your home, honor, body, and soul, I so by swear it to all the gods that watch over this land," Lydia murmured to herself, blocking out some of the jeers of the crowd grew which grew louder and louder, forcing the city guard to form a barrier between it's people and the Dragonborn. It had been thirteen years since she had swore her oath to the gods and a young girl with a strange destiny only to be left protecting the broken remains of a fortune, a weak body, and lost soul. _I have failed._

"Lydia," a gruff voice called out over the shouts, drawing her attention from the slow progression of Eorlund and Elsa. Turning to see Farkas' looming frame made a small smile creep across her lips. She wanted nothing more than to feel his muscular arms wrap around her and block out the rest of the world that seemed to have gone mad since the dragons had returned. Never before would a child be elevated to Thane as Elsa had, nor would Jarls across Skyrim and the leader of a revolution put their trust into someone with so little skills or experience. Deep down, Lydia was convinced that should the Jarls and the Stormcloaks have treated the Dragonborn like the child that she was Elsa would have been spared the heartache, anger, and hatred that consumed her life and would have defeated Alduin but returned from that mysterious journey joyous with triumph rather than a shell of a Nord.

But the world did not work in a clear, logical manner. Madness and fear over the dragons had caused wise leaders and weathered warriors to seek out a girl of sixteen to fight their battles. They forced a blacksmith's daughter to master her weapons and voice only to sacrifice herself to save a land that she wasn't even born into. At times, when Lydia looked back on the past thirteen years, she couldn't help but hate the her homeland that had taken the woman she had grown to love and destroyed everything that was good about her.

"You shouldn't be here, Lydia," Farkas said, finally reaching her.

"You know I have to be," she answered with a shake of her head, gladly taking the hand the giant Nord offered her. "What happened?"

Farkas opened his mouth to answer, but shut it again, shrugging his shoulders. "I should let Kodlak tell you,"

"I don't want Kodlak to tell me," Lydia snapped, the emotions of the day getting the best of her. "I want you to tell me why Elsa was even at Dragonsreach to put herself in a position to get arrested!"

"She ran off," he said in his simple way, not bothering to muddy a situation with useless details and useless words. It was both endearing and infuriating.

"That's it? She ran off?" she spat, her impatience growing as she sought answers to ease her own guilt. "And you didn't stop her?"

"No," he replied. "I didn't know she had left."

"_You didn't know she had left?_" she hissed as the tornado of emotions in her turned from guilt and regret to anger. "You promised you would watch out for her! You said that you would make sure she was doing okay and wouldn't do anything stupid! You promised me, Farkas. You promised and look at what happened!"

"It's not Farkas' fault," came the steady voice of Kodlak, causing Lydia to falter in her tirade. She had been so caught up in herself that she hadn't even noticed the grizzled old had walked towards them.

"Then who's fault is it?" Lydia asked.

"It's mine," he answered. "And hers, but blame is not what we should concern ourselves with. Instead, let us discuss what we are to do now."

"What is there to do?" she said wearily. "You saw her up there. She is on her last chance and I don't think she will make it. I've lost her."

"Don't give up on her just yet," Kodlak answered gently. "She is not lost just yet."

"How can you say that?" she asked, tears rising to her eyes.

A distant look came across the old Harbinger's wrinkled face, making him look older and frailer. It was a look Lydia had seen many times on warriors with mortal wounds as they lingered at the doors of death, saying their last goodbyes. She couldn't suppress a chill that ran through her, gladly moving into Farkas' large body for comfort.

"I have my belief," he finally responded, brining his light eyes back into focus. "I believe that she has a purpose yet in this world and she won't be able to leave it before she's completed it."

"I don't think your belief is enough," she answered, her own irrational faith in her mistress finally giving way to the realities of the situation.

"It will have to be," Kodlak said softly, his face becoming drawn. "There are powers we don't understand that work in our world, Lydia. We cannot discount the unknown will of those that rule us."

A small laugh escaped her at the thought of the gods taking interest in Elsa now that the dragons were gone. Kodlak gave her a sad look and sighed at her skepticism. "No matter, I spoke with Eorlund last night. She will stay in Jorrvaskr and work the Skyforge with him. When she has built up her strength we will see to her returning to the blade and earning money for her debts. For now, though, you must focus on healing yourself and living your life and leave Elsa to me."

Lydia's mouth opened in disbelief. After the antic's Elsa had pulled in the few short days she was at Jorrvaskr she could not believe that Kodlak would want to even bother with the worthless Dragonborn. "Why are you doing this?"

"Perhaps some day when the sun is setting on your life you too will see things so clearly where others are clouded by what they think is reality," he answered, giving her a small smile. "But if that doesn't satisfy you, count it as a final project for an old warrior."

She was speechless at his resolve to help Elsa. _It makes no sense,_ she thought over and over as the Harbinger gave a small nod to Farkas before turning back towards the slowly dispersing crowd. Still, as watched his progress towards the main doors of Dragonsreach, she saw a small glimmer of hope for the woman she had grown to consider more than just a Thane, but family.

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><p>Phane rode hard northeast from the Hall of the Vigilant, his white-grey steed making easy work of the fast pace. It was a good horse, the breed belonging to nobility across the more refined parts of Tamriel. His own mount, Secunda, had the coloring of his namesake, the light bouncing off the sheen of his coat so at times he almost appeared to glow. He was born of a noble line and was a direct descendant of one of the great Mantella, the horse said to be ridden by Tiber Septim himself and named after the powerful gem that helped the dragon-king conquer Tamriel. It was this that made him exquisitely expensive and a very fine gift from his former lover, the widowed Countess Bronsila Terentius of Bravil.<p>

He couldn't help but think of the Countess and her loud sobs as he proclaimed that the gods had given him a vision and that he must leave immediately for Skyrim whenever he rode Secunda. He had used the horse to leave the fat hag and her dwindling fortune only to find another benefactress in the Imperial City who happily set him up with jewels and gold until he grew bored and moved on to another conquest.

His younger years, although fun, served their purpose. He was made rich by the gifts of forgotten women and old hags. Phane knew he had_ talents_ and he used them to their utmost to get to where he was today; A man leading what could be either an unorganized swarm of mercenaries, bandits, and raiders, or the army that would bring change to Tamriel. His tongue had earned him a place in rich women's beds, his body a large portion of their gold, his cunning a position within the Vigilants, and his riches an army in need of leaders and direction. He saw opportunity for wealth, glory, and vengeance and by the gods, he was going to take it.

_Why the Vigilant had to be so far north is beyond me, _he thought with slight annoyance as Secunda's quick speed and the ever-bitter winds of Frostfall in the Pale made the water from his eyes freeze. The southern parts of Skyrim were not as bad as the north, the winds letting up by Rain's Hand to offer sunny and even warm weather until the inevitable coming of the northern winds in Hearthfire and Frostfall. Then all of the now free province would be covered in snow and ice while the wind would freeze a man's tears to his face and blacken exposed flesh. It was a dreadful place, but it was where his destiny and fortune waited for him. Thus he endured until he was able to return south to Cyrodiil, taking comfort in his plans and the small pleasures such as riding his magnificent horse.

Still, even with the speed and exhilaration of Secunda the harshness of the landscape was impossible to ignore. He hated the northern region of the Pale with its thick sheets of ice and glacial tundra that was such a stark contrast from High Rock where he had spent his youth or even Cyrodiil where he began his quest. The snow was thick year-round in the northern hold and the landscape offered little refuge to a traveler caught out in the cold. Luckily, he had made good time the day prior, reaching Dawnstar and finding a nice warm bed complete with a nice, curvy body to keep him comfortable through the night.

In the morning he had been able to wrap up some important business with Madena, the Breton mage serving at the White Hall. Clutching the small vial that he wore on a chain under his clothes, he rode hard southeast with the impatience of a man seeing his plans and hard work finally coming to together. Especially now that he had the support of the Keeper, he could at long last start his work in earnest.

_The Vigilants are as good as mine,_ he thought with quick smile, the harsh wind making his teeth ache with cold. _And now the real work begins_.

Squeezing his legs around Secunda, he felt the creature's muscles tighten and explode with even greater speed across the barren snowy wastes of Skyrim. He hated the country and the stubborn people that inhabited it, but his plans forced him there and into the weak ranks of the Vigilants so in Skyrim he would stay.

_Stendarr would have done well to have wiped Nirn clean of such pathetic followers,_ he thought bitterly of the fading group. Though the Vigilants had once been powerful and organized in their war against the defilers of life, the centuries following the Oblivion Crisis had done much to wash away any true power or influence in the group. He had of course realized this well before he joined, but that made didn't make their spineless and weak values any easier to tolerate.

_That will change_, he thought with fierce determination, his plans for his army flashing before his mind. The Vigil was outdated and weak, but his Silver Hand would be a tightly organized and disciplined force that no vampire, daedra, witch, or non-believer would be able to stop. _But the werewolves first,_ he thought, an angry growl building in his throat as he thought of the beasts. "They will pay for their crimes."

With the hot energy of his anger and Secunda's unmatchable stamina, they pushed on through the cold northern night, nothing more than a man with a potion, a plot, and growing power.

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><p><strong>Hope that this has been worth the wait. Please remember to review and GO USA OLYMPIANS :-) <strong>


	11. Hanging in the Balance

**AN: Wow, I am a horrible person. I am so so sorry for the very long delay between chapters. I could list about a thousand reasons for the delay, but in the end I doubt it matters. I promise that you will get a chapter every few weeks from here on out so long as my schedule does not do a complete 180.**

**Next, thank you for the reviews. To those with accounts, I believe I responded individually. For those without:**

**Crab Apples – yes, the humor sort of left. Not intentionally, but this has turned into a mammoth for me and has taken a turn for the darker side of life. Hopefully you will still enjoy it.**

**Myrielle – clearly it has not and I'm sorry for the long delay. Four months really flew by fast. I hope you are still reading this!**

**Anyways, that's about it. I hope you enjoy this shorter chapter and get ready for what's to come.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

The journey home was hard and filled with tension. Skjor set a strenuous pace that perhaps wasn't too much for the older warrior after his wolfish meal, but for Vilkas who had eaten little and worked much nightfall couldn't come quickly enough. As it was, the small camp they had made in the Skyrim wilderness felt cold as the two men sat at odds with each other, mulling over the dark tidings that came from Morthal.

_The Silver Hand_, his mind repeated over and over in disbelief as he thought of the two dead men and the little bit of their conversation that he had overheard before striking them down in the middle of the little town. Had it not been for the blood splatter that still remained on his armor, he might have thought the whole thing a terrible dream created by that damned voice. But as it was, there was no hiding the truth of the matter. The Silver Hand had shown itself to be alive and well, leaving him and his remaining fellows to deal with them.

Still, he was unsure of where to even start in solving the problem. He had been little more than a pup when the Silver Hand had last been a problem, the wolf's blood still burning fresh and hot in his veins. Yet his own experience with them was limited to only a few meetings with the largely unorganized group of fanatic bandits and the tales told by Skjor of the battles fought by himself, Kodlak, Arnbjorn, Aela. And then there was the aftermath he had witnessed, too, that added to his limited knowledge. He had seen corpses left after the horrific deaths of five seasoned warriors of their pack that showed just how ruthless and cruel the members of the cult were. Mercy and honorable killing was clearly not the mantra of the bandits.

Vilkas shuddered as he remembered the tortured look frozen onto the face of Olaf, a decent warrior with years of experience both as a man with a blade and a wolf with his teeth. They had skinned him alive and allowed him to bleed out slowly. What else they had done to him before that, he doubted that he even wanted to know. It was all the more reason to take the threat seriously and to develop some sort of plan to circumvent any sort of attack early on.

Sleep barely found him as his mind turned every option and every fear over multiple times through the night. As it was, he had still found no solution with the first lights of dawn and felt just as apprehensive, if not more so, when they broke down camp. He and Skjor barely spoke as they started a steady pace back towards Whiterun, each leaving the other to their own thoughts as the turn of events took both men to very dark thoughts.

_I must tell Kodlak immediately,_ he told himself as the marshy Hjaalmarch turned into the plains of Whiterun. _He will know what to do and will lead us to victory against our enemy._ Yet somewhere deep within him, he doubted whether his mentor really would know what to do and then actually act on it. Kodlak had become so consumed with finding a cure that many things happening in the hall of the Companions went without his notice or at least without his acknowledgement. It generally didn't bother Vilkas, as he wanted to be cured just as much as the old man did, but he did worry that what Skjor said was right. That Kodlak had grown obsessed and had little thought for anything else. What if he didn't act? What would happen then?

_Don't think such thoughts,_ he scolded himself as the gates to Whiterun game into view just as the sun was beginning its long descent on the western horizon. He picked up his pace as dusk fell, reaching the city and bounding through the Plains District and up towards the welcoming sight of the ancient ship that he called home. He took the steps to Jorrvaskr in twos, his news making him feel jittery and restless. But upon entering the massive overturned ship, he could immediately tell something was amiss. No one sat in the main hall despite it being nightfall and the table being freshly set. There were no sounds of practice coming from the yard and not even the thumps of Tilma going about her duties. Giving Skjor a wary look, they made their way to the living quarters, the muffled echoes of a heated words slowly drifting towards their ears.

Following the sounds, he moved down the steps quickly to find the majority of the Companions standing at a distance from the door to Kodlak's room, the Circle members wearing concerned looks while the younger fighters strained to make out the words coming from behind the large closed doors. It only took a moment for Vilkas to discern Kodlak's even tones followed by the more aggressive voice of Vignar with an occasional rumble from Eorlund. He couldn't help but wonder at why the smith was in a meeting with Kodlak and Vignar as he caught his twin's eye.

"What's happened?"

Farkas gave his brother a grim look before motioning him towards the small hall they shared in the living quarters. "It's Elsa."

A frustrated snort escaped Vilkas' lips. "She is the cause of all this?"

"Things happened while you were gone."

"In three days? She caused enough things to happen in three days that the Harbinger, the Jarl, and the most celebrated smith in Skyrim are arguing like old hens in the alls of Jorrvaskr?"

Farkas merely nodded, his dull face giving away nothing that he was thinking. It irritated Vilkas even more than he already was, having his brother act like a silent buffoon when there were _real _problems that needed to be dealt with. Not just some stupidity over a waste of flesh and bone. "If you're not going to tell me what happened then I don't have time for this," he finally snapped, turning on heel and moving towards Kodlak's door.

"I wouldn't," Farkas called, but Vilkas didn't care. Kodlak had to know about the Silver Hand. He had to know that there was a real threat and that he needed to stop the games he was playing with his instance of taking in the Dragonborn and all the trouble that came with her. The winter was looking to bring enough problems without her.

Pulling the doors open, the three men inside immediately stopped talking, their frowning faces giving Vilkas dark looks. Vignar especially looked disgruntled, his cheeks were red with the anger that shown through his eyes. He had never been much of a patient man, leading him to lose his temper quickly, but it was obvious that whatever the drunk girl had done it was bad enough to make the Jarl move beyond his normal level of annoyance.

"Vilkas," Kodlak started, "now is not a good time."

"I'm sorry, but it will have to be a good time," he snapped, not caring that his tone was rude and forceful. "I have dire news that I need to share with you immediately."

The old Harbinger gave him a long, steady look before slowly nodding his head. "Yes. I'm sorry, but Companion business is calling. We can discuss these tactics you're proposing later."

"We _will_ be finishing this talk," Vignar grumbled. "My family name is on the line. Remember that, Kodlak."

"I do not wish you or Eorlund to be dishonored by any of my actions, but I cannot and will not do as you ask. She must find her own way and that cannot happen through the methods you used on Brill."

Vignar muttered a curse under his breath as he and his brother made their way out of Kodlak's room, shutting the door behind them. Vilkas gave his leader a questioning look, his curiosity teased by mention of the Nord that did some work at Jorrvaskr from time to time. It was no secret the man had been a drunk after a few years of bad luck in his business and in his personal life. Vilkas remembered when Vignar announced he was going to straighten the man out, using very harsh methods to do so. The image of the man twitching on the floor in a puddle of his own urine and shit as he flushed out the alcohol was enough to make him understand why Kodlak was against such tactics. Still the memory didn't answer many of the questions that had formed in his mind about the strange meeting, such as why Vignar was involving himself at all in how the Companions were handling Elsa and why Eorlund was there. _Another time,_ he told himself as Kodlak sat heavily in his chair, waiting for the urgent news.

"I don't know where to begin," he started, pushing past his momentary distraction and focusing on the events of the past few days' events and his role in them. A bubble of shame moved up his throat as he thought of his sword striking down the two men, leaving a bitter, biting taste in his mouth as he knew Kodlak would not approve. _You did what you had to,_ the little voice that had invaded his mind called out, doing little to ease Vilkas' nerves.

"Often that is the case with bad news," the old man sighed, oblivious to the internal struggle his pupil was undergoing.

Vilkas nodded, pushing away his feelings as the urgency of the situation took hold of his senses. "Aye. I will just tell you plainly, we are in a time of potentially great danger."

"Oh, and why is that?"

"The Silver Hand was in Morthal," he said in a rush, the weight of the news and Skjor's dark omen easing slightly upon sharing it with his leader.

The old warrior gave him a long, heavy look, his wrinkled face carrying the weariness that came from years of sickness and the strain of leadership. "Are you sure, Vilkas?"

"Yes. I heard the men with my own ears. There is no doubt of who they were. They even mentioned us."

"And what did they say of the Companions?"

"They spoke of our double nature and made it clear that they hated us."

"Did you hear them say anything about their plans?"

"No, nothing other than that they were there to kill the same vampires we had been hired to take care of. But it was quite clear that they are hostile to us and know our secret. We have to take care of this, Kodlak! If they are anything like they were last time –"

"And did anything give you any indication that they have the numbers and the resources like they did the last time?"

"Well no, but they did mention Krev the Skinner."

Kodlak nodded, his tired hands rubbing his wrinkled and weary eyes slowly. "This is dark news, dark news indeed. But there is little we can do until we know more about their numbers, their organization, and where they are hiding out. If it is anything like the last time, they will have many members pulling from the area bandits, but they won't have much of a plan beyond overwhelming us on the roads."

"So what are you saying? That you are going to do nothing until they reveal more of themselves?"

"No," the Harbinger started slowly, "I am saying that we must plan carefully our next move. We have the advantage if they are unaware that we know of their rebuilding, if that is what they are doing. We have some time to think before we act and perhaps even find a cure to our affliction before we have to meet their silver weapons. Vigilance should be our course at this time."

"We don't have the time you think we do! Kodlak, you must do something now. Anything! Give me the locations of their old camps and I will search them, at least it is something!"

"Vilkas, planning and patience are sometimes more powerful a weapon than rushing in blind. Our greatest weakness to these bandits is their use of silver and attacking us with large numbers. They are untrained and undisciplined and are no different than any other group of criminals you meet on the road. Our best offense is eliminating one of their advantages through the removal of the taint in our blood so that their swords are nothing but swords."

"You talk of a cure as a way to defeat our enemy? This is not a time for cures and distractions, Kodlak! I want a cure for this curse as much as you do, but you are our Harbinger! We cannot afford the distractions of potions and cures when our enemy has shown themselves. We need you to help guide us in this fight. We do not have the numbers like we did when you, Skjor, and Aela fought these men before."

"And do you regret that now? Do you wish that I hadn't asked for the ceremonies to be stopped?" the old man asked, annoyance lining his voice.

"No, Harbinger, I don't. I only speak of our numbers for the fact that we are weaker than we were. We cannot afford to wait idly for an attack. Please, Kodlak, put down our quest for a cure until we are sure that there is no threat or that it is managed."

"Alright, Vilkas, alright. If you think the threat is that great then I will do as you ask if only to show you the burden of your decisions as a leader."

"What do you mean?"

"There are many ways to fight and win a war, Vilkas. You are right. We are weaker in our blood than we were when the Silver Hand last attacked us. And even then we were weaker than it was rumored the Companions had been decades before that. This group, though, has been and always will be nothing more than bandits with the power the knowledge our secret gives them. If we rush in unprepared we risk sparking something that might crumble on its own. Do you not think I haven't heard whispers of their surviving members trying to regain strength? All of them, every single one, ended up fizzling into nothingness, like a lone ember against the rain. You want me to leap into action over a conversation you heard without any other knowledge –"

"I'm asking you to find that knowledge by letting us search their old camps!" Vilkas interrupted, only for Kodlak to push on as if he hadn't.

"You are asking me to take action without the needed information. There are always consequences to any action, whether you can see it now or not. Perhaps you will learn something and it will be useful and nothing tragic will occur. Perhaps you won't. And then again, you might just reveal yourself and that we know they have returned, causing whatever little number they have to hide away from our grasp or try a foolhardy attack that could very well result in death."

"I didn't think of it that way," Vilkas said slowly as he began to understand at least why Kodlak was hesitating, even if he did not agree with it.

"Good. But as you have asked and as I have conceded, I will have some locations for you in the morning," he said with a heavy sigh. "I you and the others will have enough sense to only scout of information and not rush into battle should you find anything. That is the quickest way for this to escalate faster than we are prepared to handle. Now go find your bed. This day has been long and troublesome."

"Thank you, Kodlak," the young warrior said with a sigh of relief as he exited his mentor's room with at least a glimmer of a plan, if it was not the full on assault he had secretly envisioned. Still, it was some relief that a portion of the nervous energy he had been feeling since Morthal had dissipated, leaving only the fatigue of travel and battle settling into his sore muscles. Shuffling back to his room, he barely took the time to remove his armor and place it on its stand before slipping under the covers of his bed, the darkness cradling him into a quiet lull before drifting off to sleep.

It felt as though his heavy eyelids barely slid shut before a strange world of lights and colors danced before him, surrounding him in its surreal beauty.

_What is this?_ He thought as the lights moved and morphed, taking on solid shapes and becoming the people he loved most. With a large smile, he watched as Farkas burst into existence, his body made up of a glimmering blue and green light that sent off little drops of sparkling light every time he moved. He waved at his twin, receiving one of the larger man's huge smiles causing the light to shine even brighter as he made way for another ball of light.

This one was primarily made of reds and yellows. It bounced and swirled before forming into Aela, sparks of amber flying from her hair as she moved gracefully about the dream world he was in. Immediately, another light appeared, this one a burning orange and red morphing into Skjor, followed by a purplish Kodlak, and various shades of pink becoming the younger members of their family, Athis, Ria, and Njada.

Soon, all of the Companions were dancing, sparks of light crashing into each other creating a brilliant display of fireworks in the black sky. Vilkas watched in wonder at the happiness of those he considered his family, his own face breaking into a large grin when suddenly Ria let out a scream as a dark shadow appeared from no where and consumed her light, leaving nothing of the girl. The others let out cries as they moved into action, but the shadow didn't seem to notice as it moved from each figure, ignoring their attempts of fighting it off as it engulfed them only to leave a faint echo of their screams.

Vilkas felt his feet try to run to their aid, his own screams adding to Aela's and Skjor's, his voice growing hoarse as the shadow destroyed his still grinning brother. The world he had been standing in that had been full of warmth and light was now dark and cold, cries of pain and agony still echoing as through his mind as he attempted in vain to see what was happening.

"Vilkas," the familiar voice called out from all sides, bombarding him with its power and desire.

"Why do you torment me?" he called out at the voice, feeling helpless and alone in the utter blackness of his dream, his heart breaking at the loss of all those he cared for.

"Why do _you_ deny _me_?" the voice whispered back. "You have ignored me for so long, but I'm a part of you. You _need_ me. You _want _me. You will call on me."

"I won't," he called back defiantly into the darkness. "I will not call on you anymore."

"The Silver Hand approaches. They will kill all that you hold dear. You will need me as I will need you to destroy them. I have chosen you. You _will_ call on me."

"No," he called again into the darkness, the sensation of falling filling him. "NO!"

He woke with a start; his heart pounding in his chest while his quick panting breaths did little to help fend off the feeling of being suffocated. He covered his face, groaning as the cold sweat from his forehead trickled onto his fingers. "What have I done? What is this curse that is plaguing me?"

Falling back onto his bed, he laid there thinking of the choice he and his brother had made years ago, wondering why now when he hated it and wished to drain the blood from his veins that the Lord of the Hunt was calling on him, stalking him in his dreams and weakening his resolve. Was it some sort of trick the Daedric Prince was playing on him because he wished to rid himself of the poisonous gift he had accepted? Or was the Silver Hand truly a great enough threat that Hircine was warning him so that he would be prepared to face and destroy their mutual enemy?

Closing his eyes, he ruminated on all the possibilities for what felt like hours before dreamless sleep finally overtook his stressed and tired body, allowing his mind the rest of quiet darkness.

Vilkas felt groggy when he finally woke, a loud thudding reaching his ears as he began to blink away his dreams. "I hear you, Farkas," he called out so his brother would know he was awake. But the noise continued, making him call out again until he realized it came from beyond his door.

"What in the name of Talos is going on?" he muttered as he slipped on a pair of worn boots to go investigate. Immediately, he wished he hadn't. The wide hall of the living quarters was in a state of disarray. Tables and dressers were overturned, books lay scattered about the floor, and even large shelves were thrown to the ground. Yet the most irritating part of the loud mess was the sickly looking Dragonborn, desperately searching for something. He could hear her frantically talking to herself as she pulled down a shelf of goblets, sending them crashing to the floor.

"What do you think you're doing?" Vilkas finally yelled, marching towards the drunk in angry loathing.

"I can't find him!" Elsa said wildly, her hysterical eyes meeting his for a moment before returning to the task at hand. "He's not here. I haven't seen him since coming back!"

"Who?"

"Bato! He's gone! I can't find him!"

"Who in the name of the gods is Bato?"

Elsa again stopped in her search, her lank hair making her wild eyes seem less and less sane by the minute. He began to wonder if the drink had permanently destroyed her mind when the sound of a door opening and the laughter of Athis and Njada floated down the stairs. The Dragonborn immediately stood, her jaw becoming set and an accusatory fury bringing life to her otherwise dulled features.

"Where is he?" she shouted the moment the two warriors had made an appearance, completely oblivious to their shocked faces at the mess she had created in their home.

"What have you done?" Athis gasped, his red eyes widening as he took in the damage.

"Where is he?"

Njada gave a little snort, her mouth quirking into a little smile as she carefully stepped through the scattered plates, books, and furniture until she was an arms reach away from where both Vilkas and Elsa stood. "What are you talking about, _Dragonborn_?"

"Bato. Where is he? Did you see him? I was only gone three days. He couldn't have run off!"

"Who is Bato?" Njada said in such a way that Vilkas immediately got the impression that the Nord knew exactly who the mysterious Bato was and where he was. A growing sense of foreboding filled him, though he wasn't quite sure why. He had no idea what was going on, where Elsa had been for three days, or who or what the hell this Bato was. Yet the desperation in the disgraced woman's voice was enough to set him on edge. It reminded him of a job he did for a mother who's daughter had been kidnapped, a sort of crazed hysteria had filled the woman when they had finally met to get the details of the job making him at once feel a protective sympathy for the woman and also an uncomfortable awkwardness. Once again, similar feelings coursed through him, making him unsure and unwilling to step in as Elsa began to sputter something about a small mudcrab and Njada began to laugh.

"A mudcrab? You've destroyed our hall for a mudcrab?" the woman continued to laugh. "Let me guess, he was about the size of your hand and stupid enough to not run from humans?"

Elsa stared at Njada, her head bobbing slowly as fear began to show on her face. But the warrior didn't seem to notice or care as her smile grew and her eyes began to shine brightly. Vilkas felt the heaviness that had filled his stomach turn as his shield-sister pulled out a lifeless shell no bigger than the size of a small dish. It had obviously once been a mudcrab, steamed and eaten like they often did to the creatures making it no more unsettling than seeing the remains of any meal. But the small noise that escaped Elsa's lips immediately made him realize that this was not some insignificant meal. It was something between the sound a child made when gasping for air between sobs and that heart wrenching sound unique to mothers and widows seeing those precious to them dead for the first time.

_This will not end well,_ he realized as the Dragonborn's face shifted from shock, to grief, to cold hatred and fury in a matter of seconds. For the first time he saw a trace of what could have made her the warrior people use to tell tales of as the sunken angles of her malnourished face hardened into what remained of the woman that had the power to bring death and destruction merely through the strength of her voice. Even Njada and Athis seemed to notice the metamorphosis that the little crab shell created in the drunk, each taking a small step back as Elsa moved towards them.

"Not today and not tomorrow but someday you will pay for what you've done," she hissed slowly between heavy breaths, her blue eyes slanting as she stared at Njada, as if to take in every little feature of the woman and committing it to memory. Vilkas felt a chill run through him at the darkness in her voice and the threat she gave. It was not Elsa's normal drunken curses or slurs that held little possibility of ever being acted on. No, this held a promise for something dark and painful, something horrible. As he watched the scene slightly dumbfounded, again the thought that nothing good would come of the incident filled his mind.

"Go run off to your babysitter," Njada finally replied, her tone lacking its normal confident gruffness though it was obvious she did not want to look like Elsa's words had affected her despite the intensity of the glare that the Dragonborn was burning into her. "I'm sure he had plenty of swords that need sharpening."

The Dragonborn said nothing in response, instead stepping around the Nord and Dark Elf and making her way silently up the stairs. Vilkas gave them both questioning looks that demanded they explain what had just happened. Athis moved first, his eyes dropping to the floor under his superior's imperial gaze.

"Njada found this mudcrab Elsa was keeping as a pet when she was locked up in Dragonsreach."

"It was just a stupid mudcrab. I didn't think she would destroy Jorrvaskr looking for it," the Nord interrupted defensively. "Besides, who really keeps a mudcrab as a pet?"

Vilkas looked at the two warriors in disbelief. Sure, he despised Elsa and hated that she was even in the position to disgrace the Companions, but after seeing her reaction to the dead animal he couldn't help but wonder at how either of the two warriors couldn't have known that the Dragonborn placed some sort of value on it. It would be like destroying a favorite sword or burning a prized trophy. You did not do such things and think that there would be no sort of reaction or consequence. _This will not end well, _ he thought again as he processed the little bit of information they gave him and did his best to quell his own anger at finding the hall destroyed and seeing two shield-siblings act out foolishly.

"Clean this mess up," he finally bit out, ignoring the protests of the two young warriors as he marched up to the main hall. "Aela," he called out, moving towards the huntress quickly. "Tell me, what the hell is going on with Elsa."

"What? You haven't heard yet that she attacked Vignar?" the yellow-eyed woman said with a snort. "I was sure news of that had already spread halfway across Skyrim. It's not everyday the Dragonborn attempts to beat a Jarl to death with his dinner plates."

"She did what?"

"She got drunk and attacked Vignar. Poorly, I might add, and got herself locked up in Dragonsreach for a few days until she had a trail to be banished. She would have, too, if Eorlund hadn't spoken for her and agreed to take her on as an apprentice. Vignar did not seem too pleased to have his flesh and blood connected with her, but what could he do. Eorlund had the right to put his honor on the line for her and his family name."

"So that's what the fighting was about last night," he said softly, now understanding the talk of Brill and the heated expressions of the Jarl. "And did you know anything about a mudcrab?"

"A mudcrab? Do you mean Bitty or Batty or whatever it was she called it?"

"Yes, Bato."

"She showed me it the night before you left. A stupid thing to keep as a pet, but I didn't see any harm in it. Why? Is there a problem?"

"Other than Njada eating it, no."

Aela let out a laugh of disbelief. "She did what?"

"She ate it. Elsa destroyed the living quarters searching for the damned thing and looked as if she was about to kill Njada when she found out."

"Well I don't think we have to worry about that. I barely trained with her for ten minutes before she was ready to give up and drink more. I'm sure she'll forget about it once she has some ale."

Skjor let out a low laugh from across the table, his face brightening into a smile. "Giving up on the girl already? So much for you being able to turn the Dragonborn around!"

"Peace, Skjor. I haven't given up yet, though it's not going to be as easy as I thought."

"More like impossible," Skjor continued to laugh, starting a series of pokes and jabs by the two friends. Vilkas felt little in the mood for the banter and made his way out to the yard where his brother was carefully cleaning his armor. Settling in next to him, he remained silent, taking in the sounds of Whiterun mixed with Eorlund's hammer on an anvil, the smells of soot and steel drifting to his sensitive nose.

"So Elsa is with Eorlund now," he stated more than asked as he caught a glimpse of the Dragonborn's weak body swimming in an ill-fitting shirt and apron.

"Aye," his brother returned, turning an eye up towards Skyforge. "Eorlund says she had some talent with a hammer."

"Seems a lot has happened in the few days I was gone."

"Yes, though I hear you had your own excitement too. Unless I'm going to Cragwallow Slope for another reason."

"So Kodlak is sending you to the old camps for the Silver Hand?"

"All of us have been given a few names to go poke around at. He seemed pretty put out when he was doing it."

"Aye," he replied, his eyes drifting back towards Skyforge where Elsa was slowly carrying pieces of ore. She looked like a ghost of something that once had been full of life and fight, her body language listless and without purpose. A small stirring of pity filled him as his mind replayed the little incident from earlier and the desperate frenzy that had filled her over something she clearly cared for. He couldn't help but wonder if she had once had such passion for other things in her life or if it was just ale and mead that she really cared for. _These are distractions,_ the foreign voice whispered to him as he continued to stare. _Focus on the task at hand._

"You're right," he muttered, causing his twin to look at him questioningly. "Not you, I was talking to myself."

Farkas shrugged and returned to his work. "Kodlak was wanting to see you once you woke. He went to speak with Vignar."

"I will go find him," he returned wearily, the morning and horrible night sleep already weighing him down despite it still being hours until the sun was at its peak in the sky. Walking around his ancient home, he took no solace in the last few songs of the birds before the snow came or the crisp breeze that had the linger taste of summer and the impending smell of winter. He felt tired and overburdened with all that was happening. The Silver Hand was back; he had murdered two of their members in cold blood at the beckoning of some unnatural voice. His sleep was plagued by nightmares of wolves and guilt as his own resolve to not change was being tested in a way he could never imagine. Then, to top it off, the disgrace of a Nord hero was sent to his home, creating numerous headaches, problems, scandal, and now had bad blood between her and one of his shield-siblings. It was one more problem he did not want or need to have and he was resenting Kodlak more and more for accepting her to their ranks.

_And now Eorlund too has tied himself to her and is causing Vignar to lose his temper at Kodlak and the Companions_._ The last thing we need is an angry Jarl_. He could understand the man's reasons. His family name was on the line should Elsa do something disgraceful while under Eorlund's supervision. Honor was on the line and he knew it. It was even understandable that he would want to demand Kodlak enforce tactics like those Vignar had used on Brill, including everything from beatings to starvation to straighten the man out from his drinking. But Kodlak would never stand for such methods, finding them cruel and unnecessarily abusive. "But this shouldn't be a problem for the Companions!" he grumbled as his feet carried him towards Dragonsreach.

"What shouldn't be?" Kodlak's voice called out, startling Vilkas from his thoughts to realize that his Harbinger was standing only a few feet from him.

"Nothing, master."

"I am not your master, Vilkas," the older man replied, motioning for the boy he had mentored for years to follow him in a walk about the Cloud District. "I assume you are either speaking of the resurgence of the Silver Hand or the Dragonborn."

"The Dragonborn," he confirmed as they slowly took the winding road up a neatly kept set of stairs leading to Whiterun's largest homes.

"I thought as much since you usually take to a physical challenge with less grumbling and dark looks. What is it about Elsa that is bothering you today?"

"We cannot afford to have her as a distraction right now or Vignar as an enemy because you won't do what he thinks is best."

"Vignar is always angry, Vilkas. And his current anger is no more than fear that his brother will bring disgrace to them that will give the Battle-Born's something to spread as gossip across Skyrim. It is a vain man's fear in an impulsive man's heart, nothing more. Eorlund and I have discussed a plan involving Elsa that is better suited to her and her needs. You should not worry about her or her presence in the Companions."

"Between her and your search for a cure I fear that you forget that we have enemies planning to start a war with us once more."

"You cannot know that," the old man said quickly, a small cough cutting him off for a moment. "You yourself said you did not hear any specific plans or anything that would give away their numbers. I have done as you asked me and have already instructed the circle to seek out their old camps to see what they can find. But I must admit that as grave as the news is that some members still existed I cannot believe that they have grown to the numbers we saw all those years ago. The only leader that lived was Krev and he is little more than a bandit."

"Is that truly what you believe, Harbinger? Or is it as Skjor says that you have become blind to the world as you think about your own death?"

Kodlak let out a small breath of air, giving Vilkas a deep look. "I have known my death was coming for years. The blood cannot cure all things that have taken root before receiving Hircine's curse. Perhaps I am blind to the threat or perhaps I'm seeing more clearly now that the problems and fears of youth tend to be little more than a challenge and a trial. That is all life is, Vilkas. A series of trials and challenges which should we survive we should never have feared."

"Forgive me, Kodlak, for not being as accepting of the thought of torture and death as you are. Perhaps you have forgotten some of our fallen brothers and sisters, how the skin was ripped from their bodies leaving us only pieces of meat to burn on the pyre."

"That is the weakness of youth," the old man sighed, "You see death as an enemy where I see it as a friend, as painful as it might be. But it is a friend I hope to meet free of this curse. I see now that this is not my fight to lead."

"What are you saying?" Vilkas asked as they turned their way back towards Jorrvaskr.

"I have trained you to lead after I'm gone and I think it's time you truly start in those duties. For better or worse, whatever information is gathered by the Circle I leave you to decide what to do with it. You will have my blessing no matter what course you choose to take so long as you don't let yourself be ruled by your fire."

"I am honored, Harbinger!"

"It is a burden, not an honor, to lead, Vilkas. Lives kept or lives lost will be in part due to the decisions you make. Remember that should what you fear come to pass and the threat of the Silver Hand is more than a few bandits making a sad attempt at resurrection," the tired warrior finished as they reached the steps to Ysgramor's overturned ship. Vilkas watched as his mentor slowly took the steps, his hands pressing on his knees with each labored step betraying his growing weakness.

_I will honor you, _he thought with all the determination of a son being tasked with a great responsibility from his father. _And I will not let the Companions fall to our enemies_. Deep inside of him he could feel a rumble of satisfaction and along with a sudden wild desire to howl into the air his convictions. He suppressed the urge, but felt a strange comfort at knowing that despite hating and ignoring the desires of his cursed blood, the beast approved of his actions and would give him the strength to protect his family from whatever was to come.

* * *

><p>Phane paced about the stony floor of the cavern in Bronze Water Cave he had claimed for his own personal use. He had only arrived day prior and already was in a state of frustration at the lack of discipline he was seeing. It was no surprise, considering that nearly two hundred men had been gathered and were doing little more than twiddling their thumbs between the two caves he declared would be their home for a period. But still, he had hoped for more and already hated the idea of sleeping in the wilderness far from a comfortable bed and a warm fire. It didn't help that the cave was dank and smelt of mold and fungus despite his best efforts to have enough fires to dry it out.<p>

Still, it was only a temporary solution to house some of his growing numbers until he was able to establish something more permanent. Moving from his room out to one of the larger caverns of Bronze Water, he watched a few of the men that lounged at roughly crafted tables play some sort of crude gambling game, their rough words and poor grammar marking them as uneducated and unrefined. He couldn't help but feel a smug distaste for the dimwitted recruits. They were cutthroats and bandits, lured to the Silver Hand by the promise of gold and bloodshed. They were the kind that would easily abandon the cause if the gold grew thin or the danger too large. _But they are necessary until I can create more order,_ he reminded himself as he longed for the day when he would have control over a legitimate army.

"And we should see what Burn has found on that front," he muttered to himself as he marched past his unsavory expendables and down one of the cave's passages that led to a cavern that he had turned into a war room of sorts. He had collected maps of Skyrim, securing some to the cave's wall while others lay open on the long table that filled the room, their small little markers showing the areas he would first focus on, such as Daedric shrines and witches dens. But the largest marker on the map was reserved for the group he hated the most; the doomed werewolf lair, Jorrvaskr. He stared at that marker with a dark longing that morphed his beautiful features into something fierce and dangerous. _Soon enough, _he told himself, a delicate finger touching the red pin that sat in the center of the werewolf's ship. _Soon enough_.

With great effort, he pulled his eyes away from one of his great goals and looked at the placement of the shrines that were dotted across the map, taking great care in relating them to various places of power within Tamriel, including the holds kept by Skyrim's Jarls. He had a simple system of keeping track of which regions he and his men had come semblance of power by marking the leader's keeps with a green pin. Unfortunately, most of the green was centered about county's in Cyrodiil where he had wooed the countess ruling there. But he was prepared to change that. Skyrim, after all, was a land of superstition and hardship. The Jarls would not prove too difficult to crack under the right amount of pressure and influence to believe what he wanted them to and give them all he asked for.

_But first I need my army,_ he thought again as he strode towards the only other man in the room, his second-in-command, Burn. He was a sturdy man of good Nordic stock. He had the typical broad shoulders, thick tangle of brown hair and beard, and strong features of his race that gave him a rather barbaric look. But underneath the brutish features, he had a very strategic mind and a lust for grandeur that made him at once indispensible and yet very easy to mold. He was a perfect ally for Phane and his plans.

"So?" Phane asked expectantly as he dropped into a chair near where Burn was studying a set of documents. "Where do we stand? Did you find me my men?"

"I have a few good options," his second in command grunted out as he eased back in his chair.

"Tell me."

"Well there's a Nord, Mathies. He's a farmer in Falkreath. His girl was murdered by one of the beasts and his wife died a few years later of heartbreak they say."

"A farmer? Truly Burn, is that the best you can do?"

"He's not as green as he sounds. He had a commanding role in the Imperial army in Cyrodiil when he met his wife. He left the service and moved to Skyrim for a better life according to my sources," the Nord explained dryly.

"Ah, now that _is_ better. Any more?"

"Adrian Maro, the only surviving son of Commander Maro."

"Commander Maro," Phane mused with a smile, "he was killed by the Brotherhood, was he not?"

"Supposedly there were wolves among the assassins. Adrian is thirsty for revenge of any type."

"And does he have a military background like the other's in his family?"

"He was stationed in Helgen, but was displaced after the dragon attack about a decade ago. Still, even being out of practice he should be equipped to handle some of these men."

"Good, good. Is that all you found?"

"There is one more," Burn said slowly, his dark eyes narrowing as he chewed on his cheek. "But I'm not sure if it will be a good fit here."

"Who is it?"

Burn leaned back in his chair, letting his hand drift carelessly to the tangled mass of hair on his chin. "How much do you know about the Dragonborn?"

"The Dragonborn? Isn't that just a myth the Stormcloaks used to gain support during their revolution?"

"That's what most people outside of Skyrim think, but the Dragonborn isn't just a myth."

"Well I know that it was a real person," Phane snapped, hating to be lectured. "But what I meant is that the Dragonborn was just a warrior given some sort of god status for morale."

"She was not just some warrior during the revolution. She was _the_ warrior of the revolution. She has the blood of dragons in her veins and all the power that goes with it. That is no myth, Phane. She was more powerful than any man that has walked Nirn in the last age."

"Then why do I hear people talk about her being a some sort of debtor now? That doesn't sound very godlike to me."

"Aye," the Nord replied darkly. "She is has succumbed to the drink."

"And _why _would we want her?

"It's not her that we're after, but her housecarl," the Nord explained. "She was made a housecarl at a very young age and is reputed to be very good with a sword. She also has commanding in her blood. Her father was captain of the guard in Rorikstead when he was killed by one of the beasts."

"I see," he mused, his fingers carelessly tapping on the table as he thought of the possibilities. Two former imperial soldiers would make fine generals in his army. They both had the hatred he needed to give them the passion necessary to lead his crusade and were use to the rules of rank, meaning they would follow orders. _But the woman…will a woman be able to lead these men?_

As if reading his leader's thoughts Burn leaned forward with a wicked grin. "She helped slay dragons, you know. Some consider her quite the hero for all she did with the Dragonborn, especially since her master has disgraced herself to the point of people wanting to forget completely about her. They look up to her as being the real power behind her Thane and respect her and her opinions and call her the true hero of Skyrim."

"A respected hero you say?" Phane replied with a wicked smile. "Now _that_ is something I could use."


	12. Changing Winds, Part I

AN: I hoped to get this out faster, but that did not happen. This actually was much, much longer originally, but I decided to split what was quickly becoming a 15k word chapter into two.

As always, I believe I responded to all reviewers with accounts individually. To those without:

M: Yes it is. And it is only going to get more so.

DrunkGecko: It's coming! Give me a few chapters to move her along the Companion questline and she will start doing better.

So there you have it. I will have the next chapter out in a week or two after finishing a small section and doing some editing. Happy reading and reviewing ;)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER 12<strong>

The sun was barely rising when Elsa finally rose from the spot she had begun to haunt on the wall behind Jorrvaskr. Sleep had not come easily since leaving Dragonsreach as her mind began to betray the many dark and twisted thoughts and memories that she had buried beneath a blanket of alcohol. Once more she felt the hot rage that had consumed her years ago, but it was what was beneath the rage that was worse. The utter despair and bitterness that had taken root in her heart had grown to the point that she could no longer see the world as a place of hope and happiness. To her it was all an illusion to cover the pointless suffering that was life while the gods were nothing more than cruel powers taking joy in the agony of mortals.

This only became worse after her loss of Bato. The death opened old wounds that had once so overwhelmed her mind with grief that she had just barely managed to remain sane. It had been hope that had originally saved her all those years ago and once that was lost it was the drink. Now, though, in the wake of all that had passed since Lydia had left her at Jorrvaskr she found herself once more faced with the pain that tore her from the inside out and she no longer was allowed to carelessly reach for a bottle to soothe herself. In the four weeks that had passed since her trial, she was made to adhere to the long hours of Eorlund, leaving little time to drink as she once had. Her body began to adjust to the sharp decline of her consumption, but it didn't make the cravings any less powerful. Not even the familiar smells of metal and soot and the memories of a life that seemed long, long ago was enough to dull the sharpness of her pain, anger, or despair.

So instead she did was she was told with the mindlessness that came with her new routine. Every morning she met Eorlund by the forge at dawn and did whatever task he set to her. The first week was little more than moving ore and sharpening blades. The second week the famous smith added to her duties by making it her responsibility to maintain the proper heat of Skyforge that he needed to craft his famous steel blades. The constant up and down motion of the bellows pulled at her weakened muscles until they burned and ached, forcing her to start drinking more water and eating more when she finally returned at nightfall to the warm halls of Jorrvaskr. But for all that her body was tired and calling out for sleep, her mind was unable to find peace in the manual labor. Constantly her bitter thoughts turned to those that had wronged her and had brought her pain or to the gods who she cursed her. It was the latter that she made the focus her hatful thoughts; her own curses circling in her head as she thought of Talos and Akatosh.

She did this day in and day out, with little heed to what was happening around her. She did not care about the quiet conversations had between the Circle members while she ate what she had to in order silence the grumblings of her stomach, filling the rest with whatever little bit of ale she could. Nor did she care about the insults that came from other members of the Companions about her weakness and dirtiness. She only thought of her hurt and her desire to make all the ignorant people around feel what she felt and know the world for what it was; a dark, merciless place that stole away hopes and dreams by the design of sadistic and malicious gods.

* * *

><p>Vilkas stood on the steps to Jorrvaskr, watching the snow fall onto the barren branches of the Gildergreen tree with the uncomfortable sense of foreboding twitching at his muscles. It had been four weeks since his confrontation with the Silver Hand and despite nearly two dozen sites being provided by Kodlak the Circle was no closer to knowing the whereabouts or plans of their old enemy than they had been. Even Aela and Skjor, who had taken to the task with the venom of hatred, found no trace of the bandits either as human or as wolf. It was as if they had disappeared completely from Skyrim, making him question what he had heard in Morthal.<p>

For days he had been replaying the scene trying to think if he had missed something that would give him a clue as to where to look next, but every time he was left empty handed and frustrated. Deep within him he could feel the impatient rumbling of his cursed blood, the familiar itch of restlessness pulling at his resolve more and more as an uncomfortable lull settled over the hall and the members of the Circle. It kept him awake late into the night and when he finally did sleep he was faced with the same disturbing dreams of those closest to him being skinned alive. Often, it was their screams that woke him and kept him from returning to his bed despite it not yet being dawn.

Turning from the first snow of the winter, he moved back into the hall that he had considered home since childhood. He wanted nothing more than to protect it, to shield those he considered family from the threat that was still out there, somewhere. The frustration he felt over being unable to discover his enemy's whereabouts and _do something_ ate at his core, making his mood foul and the beast within him even more agitated than it had been. Nothing seemed to be going right in the last few weeks.

As he entered the hall he found it quiet, which was not unexpected considering the early hour. In the corner he spied his brother gathering up food and stuffing it into a small traveling bag. Inside of him he felt the beast turn, his curiosity building as he tried in vain to remember what job Farkas had taken. "Where are you off to, brother?"

"Riverwood," his twin answered, a foolish smile spreading across his face.

Vilkas wasn't sure if it was the stress he was feeling or just his impatience when it came to his brother's romantic inclinations, but whatever the reason he felt an immediate hot anger build up in his stomach leaving a sour taste in the back of his throat. _Distractions,_ the voice that continued to plague him whispered, _more distractions._

"You are letting yourself be distracted by a woman, Farkas," he heard himself say sternly to his brother before he even had time to think of the words that had filled his head. For a moment, he felt slightly unsettled by his immediate reaction to an influence he was still unsure of, but he had to admit to himself that it was true. Farkas had been spending much of his free time traveling to Riverwood to visit Lydia. He often came back to Whiterun very late and woke with the signs of fatigue. Should an important job come up or some sort of emergency with the Silver Hand appear Vilkas knew his brother would not be able to perform as well as he could. Lydia was a distraction. That much was obvious even without the voice's help.

"I promised her I would visit and there are no jobs today," the large Nord said with a wave. "I'll be back tonight."

"You are acting a fool, Farkas, and you are putting your shield-siblings second, risking our lives so you can chase after a woman."

"How?"

"You come home exhausted and spend the next two days with bags under your eyes. I've watched you train after visiting that housecarl. Your movements are slow, your reactions are delayed, and your mind clouded over by your need for sleep. Then, even when you're not with her you spend half your time daydreaming about her! What would happen if the Silver Hand ambushed you on the road? You would be killed and get whoever was with you killed! I cannot stand for this, Farkas. You need to focus on your family and your responsibilities, not some little affair that will be over the minute Elsa is thrown out of Eorlund's care!"

Farkas' face darkened as he frowned and clenched his jaw. It was an expression Vilkas had seen many times in their youth whenever his twin was holding back a comment that was bound to be hurtful. "Lydia is not just a little affair," he finally said in a soft and dangerous tone. "I promised her I would visit. I will be back tonight."

"You are being selfish."

"And you are worrying too much, brother."

"You're not worrying enough!" Vilkas snapped back as Farkas gathered his things and moved past him. "You cannot keep having this distraction!"

"This isn't your decision. I am going. Goodbye, Vilkas," his twin said in reply as he walked out from the hall.

The door thudded shut with a finality that made his hands clench. He could not understand the infatuation his brother had developed for the housecarl. She was not a great beauty by any means, nor did her situation make her very desirable. Yet Farkas continued to chase after her despite the obvious end their liaison would meet. _He should be focusing on the Companions and our enemies,_ he grumbled to himself as he quickly ate an unsatisfying breakfast. _We must be prepared as our enemies are surly preparing._

His appetite left him with the thought. It was the most logical reason for the Silver Hand to just disappear. They were preparing, training, building up supplies, and doing all the things that the Companions should be doing for the war that was coming. _And it will be war,_ the voice whispered to him, meshing seamlessly into his own mind repeating the same thought. The men in Morthal were not just a few survivors of a destroyed sect. They were there to hunt a vampire in the name of a group that was alive and thriving. Their enemies would come sooner or later, of that much he was sure.

Pushing himself away from the table, he moved out into the yard hoping that physical activity would push the sense of foreboding from his mind. Pulling out his broadsword, he felt its familiar weight in his arms as he meticulously moved through a series of stances, blocks, and attacks. Years of being the smaller, weaker of the twins had forced him to rely on form and technique rather than brute strength. In the end it had made him a better warrior than many that were larger and stronger than him. He had complete control over his weapon and his movements, leaving no openings in his attack for an enemy to strike at. It had taken years for him to master the warrior's dance, but the practice had molded him into a lethal fighter, capable of meeting his enemies head on with the confidence that he would be victorious.

_I must be victorious, _he growled at himself, moving faster and harder with each pose, his mind picturing silver weapons moving in on him from all sides waiting to spill his tainted blood.

Sweat was running down his neck and brow by the time the sun broke the horizon. He felt the fatigue that came from nights of poor sleep mixed settling into his muscles, but he continued to push himself to train. He needed to be vigilant and fully prepared for an attack. The Silver Hand would not wait for him to have a decent night's sleep before they attacked nor would they care if he was sick or injured. They would use any weakness they could find in the Companions to destroy the home and family he loved. He would not let them find weakness in him.

He moved through a final set of motions, grunting as his muscles burned and pulled tightly under his skin. He let his frustration over finding no sign of his enemies power the arcs and slashes of his sword. _They are out there_, he thought as he moved from a long sweeping move into a standard block, holding his stance tight. _They are out there hiding like rats, but I will find them._

Turning to the nearby practice dummy he pictured the men he had killed in Morthal, their slimy voices echoing through his mind. A hot rage filled him the more he thought of them and their bold daring at threatening his home. "They will not be victorious," he growled as he let out a shout and jabbed his great sword forward into the dummy with a satisfying thud, his blade stuck deep into the wooden post.

Leaning over his knees, he let the sweat run down his face while he caught his breath. His arms and legs shook a little with the fatigue he wished he could give to his mind. Unlike his muscles, the hours of training did little to quiet his thoughts or his worries. In fact, it only seemed to make them louder as he saw the limits of his body. _But the blood is not so weak, _the voice whispered, echoing the fleeting thoughts he had tried so hard to ignore.

"No," he muttered, pushing himself up and going to his sword. "I can do this without breaking my oath to Kodlak."

An eerie laugh seemed to fill his head, coming from all sides before disappearing. It made his hair stand on end and his stomach turn. _I am just tired, nothing more, _he told himself as he yanked his blade from the dummy. "And this blade is dull," he finished with a grumble. Sheathing his sword he made his way up the small hill that separated Jorrvaskr from the legendary Skyforge. The elves had once believed the intense heat that came from the forge was a relic of the gods, but it was Ysgramor that had tamed the forge and claimed it for the use of men. Its heat could not be reviled, making it the only place Vilkas would ever trust to make and sharpen his steel blades.

Marching up the hill, he couldn't help but think of the long history of the Companions and how the forge was intertwined with it. Great warriors that now feasted in Sovngarde had made their legendary weapons in the forge and had been laid to rest on its pyre. Its fire was in the blood of the warriors that stood guard over it and the smiths that tamed it, like Eorlund Grey-Mane. It was part of his proud lineage as a Companion and he viewed it almost as sacred ground.

Yet, like everything else, he could not go about his day without seeing the things he held dear being dirtied by the weak and disgraceful Dragonborn. She was the first thing he saw upon reaching the top of the hill to the forge, her greasy hair hanging in her face and her clothes filthy with stains and soot. He watched her for a minute as she moved lumps of ore, her thin arms and atrophied muscles shaking with the effort while her keeper went about crafting a sturdy looking warhammer. The contrast between the two was almost comical, if he could ignore the fact that Elsa seemed to do nothing but ruin his home, defile his traditions, and bring dishonor to the Companions.

_And we were almost rid of her, _he thought bitterly, wondering why the famous smith had even bothered taking in such a waste of flesh. True, over the past few weeks she had gained some weight making her look much less sickly than she had, but it still wasn't enough to smooth over the hollowness of her cheeks or make her clothing fit any better. In fact, she almost looked worse due to her state of complete filthiness, making Vilkas wonder if she had even bothered to bathe since he had last ordered her to wash up.

Shaking his head he made his way towards the smith, ignoring the labored grunts Elsa was making as she lifted another piece of steel. "Hail, Eorlund."

"Vilkas," the smith answered, setting the hammer he was working on in a slack tub.

"My blade is in need of sharpening."

Eorlund nodded, wiping his hands. "Bring it here," he instructed Vilkas before turning to the sickly looking Dragonborn. "Go bring those swords to the guardhouse."

She gave him a silent nod, showing uncharacteristic obedience as she did exactly as the smith told. Vilkas watched her, not quite believing that the drunk and belligerent Elsa Fire-Storm left without a rude word or idle threat. It was almost as if she had become resigned to her fate, losing all of the alcohol-driven fire that had shown itself in many disgusting displays at the Bannered Mare.

"This will take a few minutes," the old Grey-Mane called out as he set about the grindstone, carefully taking Vilkas' long blade and touching it to the moving sides. The young warrior watched for a few moments as the man reputed to be the greatest smith in Skyrim carefully moved the polished steel at just the right angle to make the blade sharp enough to slice through just about anything. Again, he found himself wondering why a man of his reputation and honor would tie himself to someone so toxic as Elsa. Like many things in the last few weeks, it didn't make sense to him, his curiosity bubbling over. "Why Elsa, Eorlund?"

"She is useful."

"But why dishonor yourself with her? I cannot see her usefulness."

The smith gave him a hard look, his mouth moving as if he was thinking about his words carefully. "She saved my son," he started slowly, his large arms crossing in front of his massive chest. "When the Imperials took him she was able to find him when me and my other son could not. She freed him and saved his life. For that I am honor-bound to repay her."

"I can understand your sense of debt towards her, but what of the honor of your forge? What of the honor of your family name? Would it not be best to let her poison herself and her reputation alone?"

"She will not dishonor the forge or my name. She was trained as a smith before she was the Dragonborn. She knows the work."

_She was trained as a smith?_ he asked himself, the surprise of the information taking him off guard. He realized that he had never wondered who or what Elsa had been before entering Skyrim, becoming the Dragonborn, and disgracing all Nords with her behavior and weaknesses. It had never occurred to him that she must have had some sort of life before showing up in the Nordic homeland as nothing more than a foreigner from Cyrodiil. "She told you this?"

"Aye."

"And you believed her?"

Eorlund stopped the grindstone and lifted Vilkas' sword up towards the sky, his eyes squinting as he checked the smoothness of his sharpening. Standing, he handed the sword back to its owner, his face remaining as serious as it always did. "She came to Whiterun with a message for the Jarl. He could not see her immediately and she came to Skyforge. You can always tell a smith by the way they look at a forge."

"I still don't know if your decision is wise. Your brother is furious."

"The fury of Jarls and honor of a family name would not matter if the Dragonborn hadn't come to Skyrim and saved us from the dragons and the Empire. We all are in her debt, one way or another."

Vilkas did not know what to say to the smith about his views on Elsa, so he merely expressed his gratitude for the sword and bid him farewell. _He still thinks her a hero,_ he thought in disbelief. It made sense why the smith might put his name and honor on the line for the drunk, but it still felt odd that such a renowned man would be so blind to the exaggerated tales. How could one woman cut down dragons alone as people claimed to have seen her do countless times? How could she alone have been the driving force behind High King Ulfric's war that eventually led to the Stormcloak victory? _No, she had housecarls that aided her and the support of the guards and the army,_ he reassured himself, knowing that like most legends the real warriors of the stories often were not as powerful or great as they were claimed to have been. Elsa Fire-Storm was obviously no different.

Entering Jorrvaskr, he even acknowledged that the great Ysgramor had the help of his men to help mold Skyrim into the land it was today. He had not defeated the snow elves on his own. _But Elsa is no Ysgramor and the Companions have no time for such a waste_.

Grabbing a plate of food, he pushed the Dragonborn from his thoughts and tried to relax his mind by passing the evening in small conversations with his shield-siblings and going through his nightly routine. It wasn't long before he found himself lying in his bed, bathed and fed and wanting for nothing. For most it would make for an ideal night's rest, but as he blew out the last candle in his little room apprehension began to set in.

"I just need one night without the dreams," he muttered in a way of a prayer to Talos as he settled in. "Just one night."

Yet his prayers went unheard. He felt he had barely touched his head to the pillow when the voice began calling him and taunting him. Tonight, it had been Farkas who was captured by faceless men with silver swords. He watched in horror as they beat him and tortured him, eventually triggering his brother to enter his beast form. That's when they began to skin him, his brother's cries waking him with a jolt.

Deciding that trying to rest was futile, Vilkas silently slipped from his bed and put on his boots and a heavier shirt with the intention of going for a walk. He found that the fresh air sometimes helped to clear his mind, the smells of the sleeping world distracting him from his worries. Quietly opening his door, he moved down the hall and towards the stairs when the sound of heavy footsteps from the main hall drifted towards his sensitive ears. He was not keen on meeting anyone on his way out the door and tried to guess at who might be up despite it late in the night.

_If someone is awake they are likely in no mood to talk, just like you_, he told himself as he eased open the door and quietly made his way up the stairs. He managed to make it nearly up half the flight when the Harbinger's quiet voice carrying in the echo of the empty mead hall as he greeted another restless warrior. Pressing himself against the wall, he stood unnaturally still, watching curiously as the old Companion took a seat across from Elsa who sat at a small table just yards away from the staircase.

"I see there is no rest for the old or the weary this night," Kodlak commented as the Dragonborn gave him a curious look. "What thoughts keep you awake, I wonder?"

"It's the second of Sun's Dusk," she answered softly, her hand toying with the neck of a half-full bottle. "And I'm not nearly drunk enough for it."

The old man made a sound of knowing and let his hand drift to his beard as he leaned back with a sigh. "One of my days is the thirteenth of Rain's Hand, but I find myself reaching for Talos in my age rather than the bottle."

"I doubt the gods would do anything for me," she answered sullenly, letting the bottle reach her lips in a long drag. "You know my history, old man, tell me is your thirteenth of Rain's Hand at all like my second of Sun's Dusk?"

"I cannot say," he replied sadly. "From what Lydia told me, I doubt it is."

"Who was taken from you?" she asked, her quiet question causing Vilkas to hold his breath as his curiosity built.

"My only child. She was only three but had somehow contracted rattles and it moved too quickly for the healers to save her. Her mother died birthing her and her death left me alone," Kodlak answered, his voice and face showing the long buried hurt that still lay in his heart. It was a part of the Harbinger that Vilkas had never known before. He always assumed that the old warrior had loved the feel of a sword and the freedom of the Companions more than the idea of taking a wife and having a family. This was the first time he ever heard Kodlak mention anything about a family.

"But you didn't turn to drink?" Elsa asked, her voice sounding bitter rather than curious with the question.

"No, I joined the Companions instead, hoping to find a quick and honorable death to join my family. Clearly, my plan did not follow the path I thought it would," the Harbinger said with a sad chuckle. "Soon my new family filled the hole my old one left so that only a few small spaces remain dark and empty."

"And your Talos has helped you do this? The sword and a man-god have covered your loss?"

"Yes, otherwise I may be as you are," he answered softly, his pale eyes taking in the stormy look she was giving him. "You need to find sobriety, Elsa. Drink will not wash anything away. You need to come back to the reality of the world around you and be a part of it once more. You are too young to live in the delusion of intoxication."

"When I'm sober the only thing that seems real is the pain," she said, her eyes flicking down towards her bottle as her voice caught slightly in her throat. "The bottle is the only thing that can kill it and the delusions it gives me are better than the farce of reality," she finished with building anger, her face growing flushed as she gripped her bottle harder.

Kodlak nodded at her bowed head, his wrinkled face becoming tired. "But look at what you have become. What do your friends that have remained with you think when they see you as you are?"

"What does it matter what I have become?" she said angrily. "Everyone I know always leave me in the end. What friends do I have haven't betrayed me or died?"

"I don't know about those that you feel betrayed you, but as for the others, you shall see them in Sovngarde as one of the blessed blood of the Dragon God, Akatosh," he said softly, his bony hand reaching out and resting softly on her arm. "At least you have that honor guaranteed to you. It is more than I have and I envy you for it."

"You can have it, then! I will give you my place at the hall and the grand table to feast and drink. If I could, I would lay the honor at your feet so that you could see the emptiness of the fields and the darkness of the sky. If you could take away Sovngarde from me I would gladly spill my own blood and end this horrible existence."

"Surely you don't mean that," Kodlak said quickly, his wrinkled hands moving towards her only to have her pull away from the table and stand abruptly.

"I do," she snapped angrily, bringing the bottle to her lips and draining the remainder of the liquid. "You, Lydia, the Jarls, none of you seem to understand _anything_. You say you know me and what I have suffered and talk of the glory of the Divines and the greatness of Talos. Well fuck the gods and fuck all of you," she said waving her arm about wildly so that the bottle she held slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. Yet she ignored it as her jaw stuck out and her breathing became quick and irregular in her anger. "You can have your fucking world and your fucking Sovngarde and choke on them. If I could go back I would let Alduin destroy it all."

Elsa gave Kodlak one last glare before storming out of Jorrvaskr and into the cold night. The Harbinger stared at the door for a few moments before letting out a long sigh. "You can join me, Vilkas, if sleep evades you as well."

"I am sorry, Master," he said quickly, his face growing hot at being caught spying. "I did not mean to listen in."

"It is no matter," the older man answered, waving him over. "And I am not your master, Vilkas, no matter how often you say it."

"Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, now sit down and let us talk. Just you and I like we did when you were a boy," the Harbinger replied, sounding weary despite the jovial tone of his voice.

Vilkas did as he was told and took up Elsa's empty seat, carefully avoiding the glass of her broken bottle. He looked at the man he viewed as a father and for the first time really saw how ill he had become. His skin had a grey tone to it while his white hair had thinned significantly over the past year. His eyes no longer had the intensity he remembered from when he would spend countless hours tutoring him in the history of the Companions and the laws of Skyrim. He had been the one that shaped Vilkas' mind and instilled in him the love of learning and discovery. He also had been the only member of the Circle that had seen his worth as a warrior early in his youth when he had been scrawny and weak. Vilkas knew he owed everything to the weary man before him.

Kodlak sighed, breaking the silence that had fallen. "Tonight has been troublesome. A cold has settled in my bones. I fear the sun is setting on my time on Nirn."

"You just need more rest, Kodlak. You are far from meeting the pyre."

He let out a little snort and gave him a small smile. "My dreams of late have been…dark. Sleep has been difficult to find. We are entering difficult times."

"Aye. We need to be prepared for the storm that is coming."

"Your storm and my storm come from two very different clouds, Vilkas. I think it is time we speak plainly. I have seen you awake most of the night for weeks. What is plaguing _you_ in these late hours?"

_A voice calling me to the blood, _he thought grimly as he pressed his mouth tight. He knew he could not tell Kodlak of his dreams and the growing urges he felt to let the beast control him. He was ashamed of his weakness, for what else could it be but some fundamental flaw within him that allowed the blood to affect him so. Farkas did not have his sleep destroyed by dreams of death and wolves. Nor had Skjor succumbed to slaying men in the middle of the street at the command of a voice. No, he could not tell his mentor and leader what was keeping him awake at night.

"It is nothing more than my frustration over the Silver Hand. I know they are out there, waiting for their chance to strike."

"I see. I wish my sleepless nights were only due to thoughts of men and their actions. But you are right, my boy, should your storm be the first to strike the Companions must be prepared. I have a plan that should help us both."

"What is that, Harbinger?" Vilkas asked quickly, feeling a spark of hope that he would not have to face the threat of the Silver Hand alone.

"We must get Elsa sober. She must return to her former state before she succumbed to the drink."

"Elsa is your solution to destroying our enemies?" he asked incredulously, anger filling him. "After what you just witnessed? She is still drinking despite nearly being cast out from Whiterun! She is wasted flesh and even said herself that she has no interest in being sober. How can you even suggest this?"

"If you listened closely, Vilkas, you would have heard a woman mourning the lose of someone dear to her. Can you judge her so harshly without experiencing such a loss?"

"I know loss, Kodlak. Or do you forget the reason Farkas and I were brought to Jorrvaskr to begin with?"

"Ah, yes, your parents. But do you truly remember the wounds left by their death? Does their loss burn in your chest every moment you are awake? Do their faces plague your thoughts and their absence leave you feeling cold and alone?"

"At first it did, yes. But I have moved past their deaths just as you have moved past the deaths of your family."

Kodlak shook his head slowly. "No, Vilkas. I have no gotten past their deaths. I think of my wife and my child every day. It is my first thought in the morning and my last at night. I have found peace with my loss, yes, but the wound is still there. I am happy that you have not experienced what I have felt for years, or what Elsa is struggling with. I pray to the gods that you never do."

"So this is your answer, then? We are to overlook Elsa's weakness because she has lost someone? I do not understand this, Kodlak. Even if she has reason to fall to despair she has no skill with a sword. She is useless to us against the Silver Hand."

"Give her time, Vilkas. She will regain her strength."

The young warrior gaped at him in disbelief. He had always trusted the old Harbinger to lead him and the Companions on the right path. His decisions always seemed so wise and prudent that he never questioned the old warrior's ability to choose the right path, but now he was not so sure. His obsession with Elsa was just too bizarre and out of character for the normally stoic old man. "How can you be sure?" he finally asked. "And why, Kodlak? Why are you so concerned with the Dragonborn?"

"She is important," he answered, his tone curt and his eyes piercing into Vilkas as if trying to read his soul. "I know that this seems like a strange whim of an old, senile man. Perhaps it is, but I hope that I am right in believing in her."

"Kodlak, I just fear that you are ignoring the needs of the Companions while you are pursuing this strange desire to fix the Dragonborn."

"Then I will make an agreement with you if you feel that strongly about it. I received a letter from a contact in Helgen about a skeever infestation. I want you to take Elsa to clear them out. You wish to lead some day, so let it be your decision whether she can return to us or not after you return."

"Why even go so far as to take her anywhere? She is not worth the effort or time, Kodlak," Vilkas protested, the voice in his head whispering _distractions, more distractions_.

The old man shook his head slowly, his eyes showing his disappointment. "Youth always has its convictions," he said slowly, ignoring the noise of protest Vilkas made at being called young. "Thirty-five years is not enough to be able to fully understand what it is that drives a human to do the things they have done. I have had years of watching and learning to trust my feelings when it comes to accepting members into our ranks. You may not understand it, but there is something to Elsa that is worthy of the Companions. That is why you must go with her and watch so that you might see it.

"But I have seen her fight already, Harbinger. What will seeing her wield a blade against some rodents do to change what I know?" he pressed, his frustration building at the old man's insistence.

"You of all people should know, Vilkas, that a Nord's character may not be all that it seems on first appearances," Kodlak replied sternly.

"What do you mean?"

"Is Farkas dumb as everyone claims he is?" Kodlak asked, his voice growing stronger with emotion. "Or is Aela as without emotion? Or even you and I. Am I just a weak old man and you an angry youth? Do we not have more complexities than what appear on the surface and beliefs and experiences that shape what is seen?"

"Yes, but we are not drunks!"

"And why is it that Elsa drinks?" Kodlak asked. "Twelve years ago you wouldn't hear anything but a praising word about the Dragonborn and her actions. Do you really think that all of that is a lie?"

"Well, no," Vilkas started out grudgingly. "But much of it must have been just the exaggerated tales of old women and children."

"Perhaps," the old man said easily, leaning back in his chair with a weary sigh. "Or perhaps she was that person we heard tales of and has forgotten that bit of herself in her grief. Take her and watch her, Vilkas. See beyond what is on the surface to the core of her soul. Only then judge her and decide her fate."

"If this is what you wish then I will do it," he answered slowly, his mind clearly seeing a path to removing the Dragonborn's constant distractions from Jorrvaskr. "We will leave immediately."

"Tonight? Are you so anxious to be rid of this task?"

_More than you know,_ he thought grimly. "Sleep evades us both. There is no reason to wait."

"Do this with an even temper, Vilkas. Do not let your fire rule your mind," Kodlak warned, rising stiffly from his chair.

The younger warrior only nodded, letting the older man proceed him down the stairs before returning to his room to put on his armor and make up two traveling packs with all the supplies they would need. He planned to walk to Riverwood and make camp just beyond the small town. Normally he would rent a room but he did not want to have to deal with the added complication of Elsa seeing Lydia. He doubted it would be a cordial meeting and he had little time or patience for the Dragonborn to cause more trouble than she normally did.

Feeling that he had everything needed, Vilkas made his way out of Jorrvaskr to search for his charge. _She probably is at the Bannered Mare, _he thought as he left the warmth of his home. He began to make his way down the stone steps when he heard a clattering noise coming from the Skyforge. He could only imagine it was Elsa making the racket so he quickly ascended the steps, feeling the pleasant warmth of the forge's constant fire on his face.

"Elsa," he called, quickly spotting her hunched frame at the edge of the forge, holding a small dagger by the hilt and letting its tip spin against the stone. She didn't answer him as the weapon slowed in its revolutions and her hand listlessly came up from her lap and giving it a quick spin, her focus entirely concentrated on the blade. The way she stared at it made him uneasy. There was a longing filling her otherwise dead eyes at the sharp edges that seemed to glow in the firelight. "Why don't you put that away?" he finally suggested.

Elsa stopped her rhythmic motions of twisting the hilt of the small blade, her eyes falling to the burning embers and small flames rather than the motionless weapon. "Do you ever wonder what it would feel like?" she whispered after a few moments of silence.

"What _what_ would feel like?" he asked, a sinking feeling filling his gut as her face grew darker and her gaze more distant.

"Cold steel slipping deep into your body and knowing that you would never recover."

"A warrior does not think such thoughts. Now put on something warmer and let's go," he finished, handing her the pack he had made for her. She did as she was told, pulling on a fur-lined shirt that was much too big for her. He didn't bother giving her armor since they were only traveling to Helgen and she would only be facing skeevers.

"Keep that blade with you and take a sword if you don't have one with you."

She did as she was told, without insults or mocking faces. Vilkas wasn't sure why but her slow, listless movements were almost more unsettling than her dark statement just moments before. He almost began to wonder if she had burned out her personality with drink, or perhaps it had been the alcohol that was fueling it. Whatever the reason, it was not the Elsa Fire-Storm he was use to seeing it.

_At least this will make this faster,_ he thought as he led the way out of Whiterun, taking a quick confident pace. _No arguing, fighting, or drunken idiocy to slow us down_. The thought made him feel more at ease with his companion's morose expressions and one-word answers to his questions. They would travel quickly, do their work, and then he would be home, free of Elsa and her destructive distractions forever.


	13. Changing Winds, Part II

AN: I struggled a bit finishing this chapter, hence the long delay. There are many things I would say about this chapter, but I'll just let you read it without throwing my opinion out there. Hopefully I will get as much wonderful feedback as I did last time.

And on that note, WOW. Thank you to everyone that reviewed. If you have an account I should have PM you a response already. If I haven't, I am dreadfully sorry. Shame on me. To those without:

Crab Apples: This chapter will not help with the want to shake Vilkas. He's stubborn after all. When you have time tell me what you make of this chapter. As far as a romance, well it was the original intent but I make no promises. We'll see where the story goes since right now it's not looking too promising for them.

M: Hurray! I got them right! That's always great to hear.

Guest: Here you go.

I believe that is all, so thank again and I hope to hear from you guys after this one…

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

Vilkas had set a fast pace towards Riverwood, but as the plains of Whiterun began to be spotted with tall pines he felt his energy begin to fail him. He had hoped to pass the small town Lydia had exiled herself to in order to avoid confrontations with her Thane, but he knew that it would be foolish to press any further not only for himself, but for Elsa. She already was trailing paces behind him, her shoulders slumped and back rounded as her body slowly was reaching the point of collapse.

"We'll camp here," he called out to her, picking a spot that would not leave them too open to attacks by bandits or wild beasts. "There is only an hour or two before dawn. We'll start again shortly after that."

Elsa remained silent, her face drawn and distant as he made a small fire and set out a bedroll. Had he not been as tired he may have found himself more curious over her changed behavior and the conversation he had overheard, but in his current state his mind was only on sleep. He didn't even care to establish a watch, his mind too fogged with fatigue to worry much about the looming threat of the Silver Hand or aggressive wildlife as close as they were to Riverwood. Instead he slipped under his blanket and let his eyes fall heavily shut.

It felt like only moments before his eyes blinked open, the sun glowing a violent shade of orange common for a winter's dawn. Pushing himself up, he felt the grogginess of many sleepless nights protest his movements, his body aching for rest.

"You thrash in your sleep," Elsa called out blandly from her bedroll, her bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles.

He gave her a hard look, unsure if her words were mocking him. Yet her eyes lacked any of the alcohol-fueled defiance that they had only a month before. There was no insult or really any other emotion in them except for a deep exhaustion that seemed to be beyond that of a few sleepless nights. It was the look he had seen in warriors after years of warfare, their bodies crippled and soul lacking the energy to continue on. He always had a great respect for those men who had fought their whole lives and were prepared for death, but on Elsa it was not due to a long life spent wielding a sword. It was from the devastation her drinking wreaked on her body and her soul. Vilkas had no respect for her or the deadpan stare she seemed to have develop. She was nothing more than a skeleton of the wretch she use to be.

"Did you not sleep?" He asked, ignoring her question. "You need your energy. I'm not stopping to rest today."

"Rest will not find me in this life or the next," she answered, slowly finding her feet and gathering her blankets into a messy ball. "So there is no point in stopping in hopes of getting any."

Vilkas watched her unsure what to make of her words or the dramatic change to the drunk he had once witnessed single handedly destroy a tavern during a fight with some poor traveler that had accidently spilled her drink. He had seen her relentlessly mock her servant and only friend in front of a crowd of people and he had even seen her wandering the streets of Whiterun shamelessly lacking clothing, but he had never seen her like this. Even through the few interactions he had had with her in the last few weeks he had no idea that she had changed so greatly. Gone was the brazen disgrace of a _hero_ and all that was left was a sullen bitter shell of a woman.

_Distractions_, his mind called out as he continued to stare at her. _Focus on the task at hand_. Nodding at his own logic, he reached for her bedroll, packing it neatly before handing it back to her. "We are going to pass Riverwood without stopping. I wish to reach Helgen no later than evening and start the journey home tonight if possible."

"Fine."

"Are you ready?"

"Yes," she answered emotionlessly, her icy blue eyes dull and lacking any sign of fire. It was unsettling how different she was acting, but he decided to ignore the questions that rose to his mind. He had already wasted enough energy looking after the Dragonborn and letting her drive his emotions to the edge of rage. She did not deserve any more of his thoughts or time, he decided as he focused on setting a steady pace while guiding them to the small hunting trail that followed the river on the opposite bank of Riverwood.

Clearing his mind, he focused on the rhythmic motions of his steps and the world that surrounded him. He felt some of the tension that had been filling his body for weeks slip away with his warriors' meditation of movement and the tranquility he found in nature. His ears could hear the soft thud of hooves on dirt and mossy stone somewhere up the hillside from where they walked. He could smell the unique scent of deer mixed with the freshness crispness of winter and evergreens. As the small wind played with the trees, he let his mind drift to the churning babbles of the river, forgetting just for a moment the worries that had been plaguing him.

Yet the serenity he found in nature was not long lived. In fact, barely an hour had passed before he caught the scent of another person on the road ahead of them. Sighing, he let his eyes focus while his hand moved to his sword, the familiar brawny shape of a Nord slowly moving closer towards them.

"Hello," the man called out as he approached them on the path. Vilkas could see that he carried an infant pressed against his chest, his step bouncing as if he were trying to get the child to sleep.

"Hello," he called back, removing his hand from his weapon. The man was unarmed and he could smell no one else nearby. "Early for a walk."

"He doesn't sleep well. Only seems to get a few hours when I take him out and – Elsa?" he stopped suddenly, his eyes widening as the frail Dragonborn made her way up the hill. "Is that really you?"

"Ralof?" she asked, her voice sounding nervous and uncomfortable as she approached them.

"You know her?" Vilkas asked.

"Of course I know her! We escaped Helgen together all those years ago. My gods, Elsa, what's happened to you? You look sick!"

"I'm fine," she muttered, her eyes dropping to her feet as if she were actually ashamed to be seen by the man she called Ralof.

"I don't think you are," he pressed, his eyes looking to Vilkas with an accusatory stare. "Is this what's become of you? Lydia left said she left you with the Companions and that you would be cared for, not that you would be allowed to waste away!"

"She is not allowed to waste away," Vilkas answered, his arms crossing in front of his chest as he stared at the brawny Nord. "Her affection for drink has made her like this. Do not blame the Companions for creating a disgrace like her."

"A disgrace? Elsa Fire-Storm is _not_ a disgrace. She is a hero! How dare you say such a thing!"

"Ralof, don't," the Dragonborn cut in softly. "I am not the person you remember."

"You just forget yourself. The war happened to quickly and too much was changing. You should have come home with me when I left the Stormcloaks so that Gerdur and I could have helped you. You know that we look at you as family and that I –"

"Ralof, enough! Please! Just…just forget that you saw me and forget that you knew me. You would be better off if you did."

"How can I forget you, Elsa?" he said, his face falling into a sad smile. "You know I can't do that. Especially now that I know how bad things have gotten. I cannot abandon you to the care of these _warriors_," he finished giving Vilkas a dark look.

"We are on a job right now," the Companion said roughly. "We don't have time for this idle chatter. Talos keep you, townsman, but we must continue."

"Excuse me, _Companion_, but my concern for the welfare of an old friend is not idle chatter."

"If you were so concerned for her welfare perhaps you should have visited her in Whiterun over the last decade and took the bottle from her hand!"

Ralof's face turned a dark red, the small baby in his arms stirring slightly as his teeth clenched in an attempt to check his anger. Vilkas knew that he had not been holding his child the man would have probably would have threatened him with more than just a few minor insults. Elsa seemed to sense her old friend's anger as she stepped in before more words could be had.

"Enough. Ralof, you need to go home and care for you child."

"Elsa," he started, moving towards her and lower his voice. "You know I tried to visit. You know I tried to help you. Talos, if I had just followed you to Whiterun the first time none of this would have happened. We would have been ma –"

"Well you didn't and things change. Please. Let this be for now."

"I'm going to visit you and make sure you being treated right. You are not healthy, Els."

"Leave it, Ralof. Leave it and forget me. Be with your family," she finished, walking by him without another look. Vilkas gave the man a quick look, waiting for him to continue with his pointless accusations but only saw the marks of deep hurt and shame on his face. He could not understand the reaction, but decided not to question it as they pushed past him at a fast pace.

He kept silent as Riverwood disappeared under a thick blanket of pines and the path twisted up towards the Jerall Mountains that separated Skyrim from Cyrodiil. The air had a chill to it as they climbed higher into the foothills, winding their way towards the city that had once been a cornerstone of the imperial forces during the civil war. Vilkas had kept himself out of the war, as did all the Companions, even as the Stormcloaks had laid siege to Whiterun and placed Vignar in power. Elsa was told to be at the center of it, as she seemed to be of all destructive things, though he had not been there to witness it. She was already gone from the city when he had returned from his mission to find Whiterun partially burned and filled with the smell of death.

Looking at Elsa, he felt the familiar heat of anger fill him at being stuck with such a pointless task. She was trouble for him, the Companions, and all of Skyrim as far as he was concerned and would never be anything else. Even those that called themselves her friends seemed to be nothing but trouble to him, delaying him on his fools errand and adding yet another distraction to what was truly important. "I trust that there won't be anymore surprise visits from your _friends_ in Helgen."

"No."

"Good," he said darkly, picking up their pace as the still unfinished walls of city appeared ahead of them. "I want to get this over with quickly."

"Me too," she answered softly as they approached the city, her eyes turning towards the ground and her shoulders slumping. It was almost as if she were trying to make herself invisible as they entered the town that had once been a thriving hub for travel and trade between Skyrim and Cyrodiil. Yet even ten years later it was clear that Helgen was still far from recovered from the devastating dragon attack. Although most of the buildings had been rebuilt with the dark stones and pine logs common to the area, rubble and scorch marks could still be seen around the foundations of the town's stores and homes. The once energetic and lively streets were more solemn and quiet, lacking the laughter of children and sounds of foreign traders selling their wares. It would be some time, if ever, that Helgen would return to what it use to be.

As they made their way through the quiet streets, Vilkas let his mind wander to many of the theories that surrounded the town's destruction. Many held that High King Ulfric Stormcloak had lured the dragon there with his voice, dealing a fiery blow to the city that housed his captures and enemies, the Imperial Legion. Others maintained that it was simply chance, that the dragon that had used its magical breath to consume the town had simply flown to the nearest human settlement to restart the ancient war of its kind had waged on men and mer alike. Yet the explanation that had been most widely accepted was that the beast had been drawn to the pulse of dragon blood in a human's veins. That it was the presence of the Dragonborn that fateful day that had attracted the creature and its wrath to the once lively city.

Glancing over to Elsa, he wondered if there was any truth to the theory. It was no secret that she had been in Helgen during the attack and sent to Whiterun with warning of the danger that was to follow, but did that mean that the blood that was supposedly in her veins had the power to draw a dragon to her? More importantly, could any of the rumors that once traveled to every end of Skyrim really be true. Her weak body and mind made him want to say no, that it was impossible but with each breath he took he could smell the light scent of ash and metal coming from her skin. Somewhere beneath lingered the musty, ancient musk that he could not place. Was it perhaps this that the dragon had sensed? Or was it merely a coincidence that she had been there at the exact moment the dragons revealed that they had awoken.

His mind told him that the latter was most likely the case considering her weaknesses, but something in his gut made it impossible for him to fully accept his answer. Whether she was worthy or not, he had to admit that there as something strange about Elsa that he could not explain. It was in her deepest, most fundamental of scents even if it made no logical sense to be there. Even if she poisoned herself and made a fool of her family name and those connected with her, there was a piece of her that just didn't seem to fit. For all he knew, she could very well be at the root of why Helgen had burned.

_I pity the people of this town that she ever walked its streets,_ he thought sadly as they passed a small memorial for those that perished in the attack, the names carved neatly in a long column. _Destruction is never far when Elsa Fire-Storm is near_.

Turning down one of the side streets, he pushed the thought from his mind and forced himself to focused once more on the task at hand. He was to test Elsa by having her kill an infestation of skeevers. It did not matter whether her blood called a dragon or not, all that mattered is that he would not longer be responsible for her destructive and dishonorable actions.

It only took a few more minutes before they approached a small strip of homes and shops. "You are representing the Companions here," he started as the slowed their pace. "You will behave honorably and do the work Kodlak has given you. If you do anything to dishonor me or my family I will personally see to it that you are thrown out of Whiterun, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, _sir_," she snapped. "Can we stop talking and do this already. I don't want to be here any more than you do."

"Fine," he answered, leading the way down the rows of buildings to one marked as an alchemy shop. It rested on a stone foundation with thick pine walls like the rest of the buildings in Helgen. It was obvious where the new stones and lumbar had been placed on whatever little bits remained of the destroyed city. Some might find it a beautiful example of rising above adversity and starting fresh, but to Vilkas it was just another reminder of the turmoil his country had seen ever since Elsa Fire-Storm appeared.

Marching up the steps, he quickly opened the door to the small shop, immediately getting the attention of its Dunmer owner.

"Can I help you?"

"We're with the Companions. You wrote about a skeever infestation," Vilkas answered, taking in the faded green robes of the elf and his weathered look. Clearly business was not booming in the sparsely populated city and surely having skeevers living in your shop did not do much to attract customers.

"Oh, yes! Thank goodness you've come. My name is Gavis Rendo and I'm the owner of this shop."

"Do you know how the skeevers are getting in?"

"They seem to be getting in from the basements somehow. We aren't exactly sure where, but the devils have been eating my ingredients and the stores of the two houses next to me."

"We need to find how they are getting in if you want the problem to be taken care of. Otherwise you'll have the same problem in a few weeks time. Are there any holes in your walls?"

"It's not the walls," Elsa said quietly before Gavis could answer, her eyes remaining planted on her feet. "There's a cave system beneath the city. Your shop and the house next door are built where the old guard tower was. It had an entrance to the caves. I would check for a hole beneath your floor boards."

"Is that so? Well I'll do that as soon as you kill the ones that have made a nest in my basement."

"We will kill everyone we find," Vilkas assured the man, pocketing the gold he and his neighbors had collected. "We'll get started straight away."

"Thank the gods. Maybe I can actually get some work done then. Damn skeevers," he said with a shake of his head. "The trapdoor to the cellar is over there in the corner. I'll be next door if you need anything."

Vilkas waited for Gavis to leave before turning to his charge. "I never heard about a cave being under Helgen."

"It's there. It's what Ralof and I used to escape the dragon attack."

"You knew him before you came to Helgen?"

"No. I met him after accidently wandering into an imperial ambush of the Stormcloaks and getting myself caught with them. He tried to comfort me before I was pushed onto a chopping block," she answered darkly, a spark of anger filling her otherwise dead eyes before disappearing again. "Probably would have been better if…" she trailed off, walking towards the cellar. "Let's just get this over with."

He followed her without a word into the dark basement. Immediately he could smell the oversized rats, their fur covered with grime and their own filth. They were disgusting creatures that would eat just about anything, including their own young. Even Elsa, who was not plagued with increased senses, wrinkled her nose at the stench of the freshly made nest as she moved towards the writhing mass of screeching bodies.

Immediately the skeevers detected their presence and began to scurry towards them. "I am not helping you in this," Vilkas said as the rodents cautiously sniffed the air and began to make threatening noises. "This is your job and yours alone."

"I know," she said through gritted teeth as she raised her sword, warily watching the approaching creatures. He watched as she put her right foot forward, her grip tensing as the first of eight skeevers darted towards her, teeth bared.

"Argh," she grunted as she swiped in a low arc, the blade biting deep into its back. She shifted her feet, turning so that the momentum helped her add power to another awkward sweep that hit the second attacking skeever in the side. As another rushed at her, she made a complicated pattern of footwork that set her slightly off balance, her sword only catching the tail of the nearest vermin. It screeched out in pain, causing the five remaining rodents to become agitated and rush towards Elsa.

"Shit," she shouted as one of the skeevers bit at her leg, causing her to stumble back. She began to hack at them, not caring what her blade hit so long as it was a furry body. Regaining her footing, she adjusted her grip and stabbed at one of the injured skeevers, killing it instantly. Pulling her sword back she waited for the final rodent to sprint towards her before slowly swinging the blade towards its head and hitting its abdomen. It let out a scream as she pulled back her sword and struck it in its head, silencing it forever.

Vilkas watched her bent form heave in air after the brief moments of activity, her legs shaking as sweat dripped from her brow onto the dusty shopkeeper's cellar floor. He couldn't help but be reminded of an old bard he had once helped. He had been singing in Riften and had offended the powerful Black-Briar clan with one of his songs. It resulted in him being kidnapped, having his hands broken, and chained in a cave with enough food to last him a month or two. By the time Vilkas had found him, the man was near death and required nearly two months of attention by priestess in the Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun. After the man had healed, he had come to Jorrvaskr to entertain his saviors for an evening, his old hands picking up his lute with the care and familiarity of a warrior with his weapon. Yet, as the night's music came from the old man's sweet voice and faithful instrument, Vilkas felt a stir of pity in him over the clear difficulty the man had over familiar songs. It was as if his fingers that had gone through the motions of strumming the strings through classic songs couldn't quite find the correct rhythm or pace. A line here or there would come just a bit faster than his sweetly sung words, or a chord would twang out slightly off-key just enough that it couldn't be hidden away by the other notes and the bard's voice. The bard had been broken and though repaired, Vilkas knew that he would never be the same again.

Elsa, like the bard, seemed to have a long rehearsed memory of the motions of fighting. He could see in her stance and the way she held her sword that at one time there had been power and control behind what should have been a deadly song of iron on flesh. Yet the years of drinking and inactivity had taken their toll. Her speed, like the bard's music, was slightly off in its rhythm, making her movements seem choppy and rushed. There was a disconnect between her legs and her arms, often her body leading her in one direction while her weak arms struggled to keep up. It was almost uncomfortable to watch since everything in her movements spoke of a time when there had been competence, if not mastery, that had been lost due to her own weaknesses.

_She is no use to the Companions, _he thought to himself as she cleaned off her blade on one of the furry bodies. _Her lack of control and rhythm make her vulnerable and will get her and her shield-siblings killed. _

"I think that's all of them," she called out breathlessly, her brow running with sweat at the little bit of acitivty.

"Then on to the next house," he answered, leading the way out of the apothecary's shop and to the house next door. There it was a similar procedure. The skeevers had managed to sneak into basement of the home and had started to build a nest. There were not as many here as there had been next door, but it still seemed almost too much for the weak Dragonborn. He watched in grave silence as her arms began to droop and her movements slowed, while her grunts became more frustrated each time she missed the scurrying creatures. He didn't even bother to comment when one of the animals managed to bite her, a stream of curses falling from her mouth as she attempted to kill it.

_This was a complete waste of time, _he thought bitterly as she stumbled about the basement in pursuit of the last animal. It was clear that she was not fit for the Companions and never would be, making the last two months nothing more than a fool's plan to get a worthless fighter sober.

"Are you finished?" he asked after a few more minutes of her clumsily swinging her sword at the twitching body of a skeever.

"I think I got them all," she panted. "Do you see more?"

"No."

"Then I'm done."

"Good. Let's go see move on to the next house and head back to Whiterun."

"That's it? You're not even going to give me a little break?"

"You shouldn't need one," he answered, moving towards the ladder. "They were only skeevers. Don't tell me the Dragonborn finds overgrown mice to be more challenging than a dragon."

"Shut up, Vilkas."

"That is if you ever truly did kill a dragon. If Helgen is any proof it seems you couldn't handle one alone. You couldn't do it without the Stormcloaks or your housecarls –"

"I said, _shut up!_" she hissed, moving towards the stairs. "You don't think I know what you're doing? You don't think I know what's going to happen the minute we're back in Whiterun? Why the fuck should I finish this job if you're only going to kick me out once we're back? I might as well go straight back to Cyrodiil to be executed right now then waste the being mocked by a man who never participated in the war, fought a dragon, or risked everything he cared for Skyrim!

"You're right," Vilkas returned, following her out of the shop and to the next house. "You should go back to Cyrodiil. You're not even a true Nord of Skyrim. Leave, show your dishonor and laziness and I'll finish your work for you. It is as much as I would expect of a filthy, drunk disgrace of a woman who dares taint _my_ homeland with her dishonor. Go! It will just prove that the Fire-Storm name has no honor."

"Don't you talk about my family name!" she shouted, giving him a shove that barely moved him.

A snarl escaped his lips as he pushed her back, sending her frail body to the floor. "Don't touch me. You are a disgrace and whatever honor your name had before is forgotten because of your actions. You can't even kill a few skeevers. You are weak and worthless and are wasting my time! So no, I will not give you a break. Finish your work or leave. Those are your options."

She glared up at him, the spark of anger making her wan features seem more alive than they had all day. "I will finish your job, but don't think I don't see you for what you are. You are a coward. All the Companions are. You cannot judge me since you have sacrificed _nothing_ for anyone but yourselves."

"This from a woman who can barely hold a sword or go a day without a drink," he snapped back at her, not bothering to help her up from the floor. "Finish your job."

Elsa said nothing in return as she pushed past him and made her way to the last house. Once more, the skeevers provided her with more than enough trouble, earning her a few more bites before they were all dead. Happily, she didn't say a word to him as he informed Gavis that the problem was taken care of and they quickly left the town the same way they had come. Even as the sun sunk over the horizon and darkness fell, she didn't complain about needing rest or attempt to stop. Vilkas doubted that he would be able to contain his own anger and frustration if she acted out any more than she already had.

_We will be home by dawn,_ he told himself darkly as Riverwood appeared and disappeared in the moonlight. _Then I will be done with her._

Pushing himself, he ignored the fatigue of his body and the throbbing behind his eyes that demanded he stop and sleep. He let his frustrations fuel his energy as they moved into the open plains towards the distant walls of Whiterun.

"Only a few more hours," he muttered to himself when a familiar scent tickled at his nose on the wind. Slowing to a stop, he ignored Elsa's questioning look as he let his ears and nose find the source of the smell. _Farkas,_ he realized, a smile creeping to his face for the first time in days.

"Brother?" he called out, his eyes searching the darkness for his twin. "Brother! Are you out there?"

"Vilkas?"

"Yes, we're over here!" he shouted back as a large black mass appeared in ahead of them. "What are you doing out here?"

"I am on a mission," Farkas called back as he trotted towards them.

"Ah, I see. I thought you were in Riverwood."

"No," he answered, his voice gruff and lacking his normal tone that made any situation seem lighthearted and simple. Vilkas gave him a long look, silently asking him what was the matter, but his twin only looked away. "Skjor sent me to search for a kidnapped boy. Some travelers thought they saw him being taken towards the old tower southwest of here."

"But you are without a shield-sibling."

"Ria and Athis already were on a mission, Aela was hunting, and Skjor already planned to go out with Njada."

"Why not wait?"

Farkas gave his brother a grim look. "There have been a few missing children from the area lately. None have returned. The boy's parents fear that if we do not move quickly their son will never be found."

"I will go with you, brother. This is not a mission to be alone on."

The large Nord's eyes moved behind Vilkas where he knew Elsa stood, filthy and despondent. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am sure."

Farkas gave a small nod and began jogging again. "Will you be able to push through the night?"

"Aye."

"Will she?"

Vilkas glanced back to where Elsa was lagging behind. Her legs shuffled more than jogged, her arms barely moving to help with the motion. "No."

"We can take three or four hours. No more," his twin answered curtly. Vilkas gave him a questioning look, sensing that something was wrong with his massive brother. It was not like Farkas to speak in clipped, demanding tones or to take control of a group. Normally that was left for him. Farkas, though, did not seem in the mood to talk of what was troubling him and remained silent as they jogged westward, the sky behind them lightening with the coming dawn.

"We'll stop here," Farkas called out as the sun began to peak above the mountains to the east. Elsa practically collapsed, barely taking the time to cover herself with a blanket before shutting her eyes tightly. "You have run her hard."

Vilkas shrugged, taking his bedroll form his pack and settling into it. "No harder than I would any other Companion."

"Are you sure, brother?"

"Yes," he answered. "If she weren't so weak she would be able to handle the journey without problem."

"You look as if you have barely handled it yourself."

"And you look as if you have lost your favorite sword," Vilkas snapped, tired of the talk turning to Elsa.

"What's troubling you, brother. You have been on edge of weeks. You aren't acting like yourself."

"Neither are you, Farkas. So leave it be and let me sleep."

"Fine," his twin said gruffly, turning over so that his back was to his brother. "I'll let you sleep."

"Good," he snapped, wrapping himself in his blanket and shutting his eyes. _How could you even understand what I'm dealing with?_ _How can any of them?_ He thought bitterly. No one seemed as concerned about the Silver Hand as he was, nor did anyone see Elsa as the distraction that she was. To Farkas she was the key to being able to see Lydia while Kodlak treated her like a wounded bird needing tending. Aela looked at her as a game to be played with Skjor and the rest just didn't seem to bother themselves with her. No one understood the trouble she would bring them with the danger that he knew was coming.

In the back of his mind, the beast growled its agreement. Sitting up, he abandoned any hope to sleep as his thoughts raced around his head. War was coming. He just knew it even if he couldn't find any evidence supporting it. He could not rest so long as his dreams were plagued with the terrors of what was to come. He waited for the sun to rise over the mountains before he stood and gathered his pack. Moving towards Elsa, he roughly nudged her with his boot to wake her.

"Is it time?"

"Aye. Move quickly," he answered turning towards Farkas. "Brother, are you awake."

A grunt answered him followed by the hulking form of his twin who quickly gathered up his pack. No words needed to be spoken between the brothers, each knowing what the other would do. It made for a speedy return to the road without pointless chatter that could delay their progress.

They traveled until dawn, the pace fast and hard as they began to ascend the little foothills that slowly turned into the slopes of at the base of one of Skyrim's many mountain ranges. Farkas pushed them hard until the crumbling structure of an old Imperial watchtower loomed over them. It would be an ideal place for any criminal or bandit to hideout, including a man interested in kidnapping children for who knows what purpose.

Giving his brother a quick look, Vilkas drew his sword and took the lead, as he always did. He was the natural leader of the two and even though his brother was superior in size and strength he lacked the tactical planning that came naturally to Vilkas. Cautiously he approached a worn and battered wooden door, glancing back to be sure his companions were ready. Farkas gave him a little nod, his sword held ready while Elsa merely stood back and out of the way. _Good, _ he thought as he took a deep breath and slowly let it out. _Let's find this boy_.

Pushing up the door, he couldn't help but gag a little as the stench wafted at him and made his eyes water. _Death_, his mind yelled, sending up warnings to his body that made him become tense and cautious. The smell of rot was not just some animal or food, it was the indescribable putrid gas smell that came from actively decaying human flesh.

"A torch," he called back to Farkas, his voice raspy as the smell settled on his tongue so that it took all of his control to not gag. Grabbing the light his brother handed him, he raised it high above his head so that the entire little room was lit. His stomach turned as he stared at what seemed to be no more than a wriggling, wreathing mass of creamy white maggots over small black and green mounds.

"Is that a hand?" Elsa asked from behind him, her finger pointing towards a small lump of green and pink flesh.

"Shit," he muttered as he reached out and grabbed it and pulled. The spongy flesh squished uncomfortably under his hands, the skin sliding off from the body as he tugged. He flicked his hands with a grimace, the wet layer of skin clumping into gray strands as he shook it off. Trying again, he strengthened his grip, ignoring the slimy wetness that seeped through the spaces in his armor as he pulled the body free from the mound.

He shook his hands again as Elsa gasped from behind him and Farkas made an angry growling noise. Looking down he felt his stomach turn as anger began to fill his veins. It was the body of a young boy, probably no older than eight or nine. He was naked, his body covered in a marble pattern of green, black, and the leathery red that came with death. But it was not the rotting corpse of the child alone that made his hands reach for his sword in rage, it was the gapping hole in the boy's chest where the heart should have been. From what he could tell, the wounds edges were smooth from some sort of blade, the heart and part of the ribs noticeably missing from the body.

Looking back at the maggots, he finally could make sense of what was beneath them; bodies of children, perhaps a dozen of them, in varying states of decomposition. They had been murdered and left to rot in some old ruin as if they were nothing more than a skeever carcass found in a cellar.

The beast blood in him burned with rage, demanding blood for blood as he turned from the disturbing scene. If Farkas or Elsa spoke, he did not know it for all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart as he began the hunt for a child killer. _Ahead, _he pushed himself as he picked out the scents of rot and sweat mixed with blood. _He is ahead_. Picking up his pace, he let his instincts control his movements, his nose and ears guiding him down a long, spiraling set of stairs that ended at a set of heavy wooden doors. _He is here_, his mind called, urging him to burst through the doors and destroy the monster that would kill a defenseless child. A low, dangerous growl tore through his throat as he slammed the doors open, his sword raised and ready as the stale scent of urine and stagnation burned his nose.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," a thin, disheveled man cried out from the center of the room. Vilkas moved towards him, taking in his dirty knife and the dried blood on his hands and face. "I will, I will, I will!"

"You!" he boomed, moving toward him. "You killed them!"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" the man continued to chant, his eyes unseeing as he rocked in the center of the room.

"You murdered them!" he shouted again, the man finally stopping in his ravings only to stare at Vilkas.

"Did the voice send you?" he asked with a laugh. "Did it? Did it?"

"What voice?"

"The voice!" the man sang out as the warrior approached him with an exposed blade. "It told me to! They said I needed to eat the hearts to make it stop!"

"You killed these children for their hearts?" Vilkas growled, his anger building so that he was oblivious to the sounds of a child screaming and crying hysterically. He couldn't hear Farkas' warning to take control or see Elsa moving towards the cowering boy in the corner, all he could see is the madman that had kidnapped at least a dozen little boys and cut their hearts from their body so that he could eat them. Every red streak lining his mouth made his hand clench his sword tighter and carried his feet quicker.

"The voice told me to!" the man said again, his own fear now becoming evident as he tried to scurry away from Vilkas' continued advances. "It whispered in my head. Told me what to do! I had to listen!"

"You murdered children!" Vilkas shouted, the heat in his chest threatening to explode as he grabbed the man by his stained and tattered shirt. "_You ate the flesh of your own kind!"_

"I had too!" the man shouted again, his arms flailing uselessly against the Nord's strong grip.

Vilkas threw the man down before him and raised his sword. "I hope you find no peace you monster!" he spat before thrusting his blade through the whimpering man's chest, the blood from his heart splattering against Vilkas' armor when he pulled his weapon back.

Looking down at the wasted shell of a corpse, he felt some of his rage subside knowing that the lunatic would never be able to hurt another soul. Somewhere deep inside of him he felt the beast stir in satisfaction. _Good,_ the voice that had been plaguing his dreams whispered in his mind. _Follow your instincts! Kill those that deserve death!_

"By the gods," he whispered as the voice faded from his consciousness, leaving only the final words of the madman in his head. _The voice told me to…_

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, bringing him back to the reality of the horrible house. "You should have brought that one in alive, brother," Farkas said, making the tumultuous emotions inside him spin an uncomfortable web.

"I don't know what happened to me," he answered, moving away from the body. "I couldn't control myself."

"We all have had that happen," his brother said, giving him another pat.

_Not like this,_ Vilkas thought grimly, shuddering slightly as he tried to pinpoint when he had lost control. Had the voice told him to do it? Or was it merely praising his actions. _Am I going insane too?_

"Come, let's go home," his twin said, moving to where Elsa was crouched on the floor with the boy huddled in her arms. It was a very strange picture to see the withered body of the Dragonborn hunched over the child protectively, as if she would be able to hinder attack that came. She softly ran her hand over the boy's head as she whispered something to him. Yet he barely could process the scene as the air seemed to grow thicker with the stench of decay while his mind began to spiral down a dark path. Glancing back at the dead murderer it took all of his power to not retch.

_We need to get out of here,_ he thought moving towards where Elsa was crouched when she suddenly began to softly sing to the boy. He hesitated in his movements as he recognized the ancient words in the language of their forefathers before they adopted the common tongue. It was part of a lullaby that he recognized from his own childhood. Tilma would sing it to him softly those first few years at Jorrvaskr when his sleep was plagued with nightmares of knives shining in the moonlight and a circle of cloaked men chanting. As Elsa sang, he felt himself drawn in closer by the comforting melody until he could hear the words.

"O, kära måne, tag mig till dig,

från denna världen så trånga!

Här skulle visst ingen sakna mig,

ty så´na finns här så många.

Jag längtar till dig upp i det höga,

där skall väl en gång mitt trötta öga ej gråta mer.

Och när jag här ej skall dväljas mer

och gröna kullen mig gömmer,

du lika milt uppå graven ser

fast alla andra den glömmer.

Då skall min ande när den får fara

till stjärnelanden så fritt förklara min kärlek dig."*

As her soft, uneven words died out he could hear the sound of the boy's heavy breathing marking him as sleeping. Farkas seemed to recover first, moving to where she sat with the child and gently nudging her arms so he could lift him. Elsa watched him adjust the boy in his arms with the same intensity of a cat watching a child play with her kittens.

"Come," Farkas called out, leading the way out to the biting air of the Whiterun plains.

The sun had dropped low on the western horizon and a light snow was blowing in the frigid wind. "You need to cover him," Elsa called out, moving towards Farkas with more speed than Vilkas had ever witnessed from her. "He will freeze in this weather. Wrap him in your bedroll."

The large Nord did as he was told, all the while giving his twin a questioning look. Vilkas was unsure of what to say. He felt that he should say something to her, tell her to stop worrying and that they needed to focus on returning to Whiterun, but he felt completely drained. The nauseous, twisted feeling that had settled in his stomach after obeying the voice that haunted him had only grown. He could do nothing but watch blankly as Elsa took control, lecturing Farkas on how he was holding the child wrong until she finally demanded that he return him to her arms. Vilkas barely had the energy to wonder at how she was able to manage carrying the boy as Farkas led their way back home. Instead, he trudged behind his companions, silently praying to the gods that he was not losing his mind.

* * *

><p>Lydia sighed heavily as she stared at her plate of potatoes and boiled leaks. Resting her head on her hand, she lazily pushed the food around with her fork finding no pleasure in the food or the company in the inn. Normally she could tolerate the boredom of Riverwood, using her excitement of seeing Farkas to help brighten the otherwise frustratingly dull routine she had developed. But for the past three days the thought of the large Nord did little but darken her mood as she thought of his bumbling words about <em>honor<em> and _duty_ to the Companions and how he had been neglecting both of those things. It had stung deeply seeing his jaw set in resolve as he slowly explained that he would not be visiting again for some time and the wound went even deeper when it was clear that he could not understand her distress at being cast aside. She understood duty better than anyone else, but she still had made time for him in her life. Had she not even moved forward with a plan to help Elsa stop drinking just for him?

"But his duty is so much more important than mine," she grumbled into her meal. Her mood only worsened as a trickle of laughter from the bar reached her ears, grating on her nerves. She had been in Riverwood for weeks and already was bored with the locals and their idle chatter about chickens and farming, gossip of who's daughter was spotted with so-and-so's son, and rumors regarding the goings on of all of Skyrim's notables, from Ulfric Stormcloak and his line of lovers to the Dragonborn being thrown from her house in Whiterun.

Inevitably, it was the latter piece of talk that plagued Lydia the most. She was known to be a housecarl by most of the citizens of Riverwood and had suffered their persistent questioning once the news of Elsa's new living arrangement had reached their ears nearly a week prior. It sparked a resurgence of tales throughout the town of Elsa's more shameful moments, like the time she had drunkenly tried to forge a new sword some years ago and started a fire that nearly consumed the entire house belonging to the town's smith. Of course, she had smoothed over the situation with Alvor and his family with a hefty sum of gold, but it was just one of many stains on the Dragonborn's failing reputation.

A trickle of laughter came from somewhere near Orgnar's counter, the feminine voices whispering quickly with brief pauses filled with their delicate giggles. Turning slightly to the left from where she sat with her back to the inn door, Lydia let her dark eyes fall on Gerdur, who ran the mill, and Camilla, sister to the local shop-keep, Lucan, as they continued their talk. By their quick glances in her direction, she could guess the topic that they found so funny.

"Mara help me that I don't go and cut out their tongues," she muttered into her plate as the door behind her opened and shut, the quick thud of boots doing little to distract her from her food and bitter thoughts. Soon an unfamiliar male voice joined in with the two women as Lydia did her best to focus on her quickly cooling meal. Occasionally, Elsa's name would drift across the open room followed by the words _drunk_ and _destitute_, brining a hot flush of blood to the housecarl's pale skin.

"By the Divines, if they don't –" she started to mutter when she heard steps approaching her. Stiffening, she bit down on her cheek trying to hold back the burning curse that was ready to be flung at anyone coming to ask her more about her mistress as the steps slowed only a few paces from her.

"I am told you are Lydia Red-Spear," came a pleasant, smooth male voice. It was not one that she recognized as belonging to anyone in Riverwood. In fact, the tones and inflections didn't even particularly sound like a Nord, let alone someone that she knew. "Daughter of the Whiterun guard, Ergnir Red-Spear?"

"What of it?" she asked, turning slightly on the bench to view the bold stranger. Immediately she was struck by the newcomer's narrow hands that were crossed in front of his chest, their long, slender fingers dangling gracefully at her eye level. They were a far cry from the stubby fingers and meaty palms of the Nords, their smooth skin and polished look marking their owner as Breton.

The man smiled, his full lips and high cheeks adding a peculiar mix of soft curves and sharp angles to his heart shaped face. His honey colored eyes sparkled from under a thick set of lashes that matched the bronze tones of his wavy hair, the locks being long enough to cover his ears so that she was unable to notice if any signs of his partial elven ancestry appeared there. She felt a flair of curiosity rise in her as the he continued to smile down at her, his simple attire of traveling boots, black trousers, and a thick quilted doublet lined with fur showing no signs of holding any weapon or threat.

"Did you know my father?" she finally asked after a few more moments passed in silence.

"I, tragically, did not," he said in his smooth accent, his face brightening with her obvious interest. "May I sit with you, dear Lydia? There is much I wish to speak with you about."

She looked at him for a moment, her instincts screaming caution at warming too quickly to a man of unknown intentions. Yet seeing no sign in his eyes or his manners that anything foul was afoot she motioned him to sit on bench next to her, pushing all feelings of discomfort aside. "What is it that you wish to speak to me about?"

The man smiled again, the ancient mix of human and elf blood making his face both something odd and at the same time enticing. It was as if his large, sharp eyes wanted a larger frame than the one his human blood provided while his sloping nose and full lips felt strangely out of place against his elfish cheeks. With every expression he made the strange mix of features provided by his ancestral races morphed his face into another oddly beautiful structure that demanded attention.

"First," he started, locking his honey eyes onto hers. "Let me introduce myself. I am Phane Mastien, at your service." He gracefully held out his hand, his long fingers stretched out, waiting for hers.

Lydia hesitated for a moment, again searching his face for some sign of his intentions, but his dignified affect betrayed nothing of his plans. "Pleasure," she finally said, pushing her own thick hand into his.

Phane smiled as he clasped her hand, his long fingers fully warping hers and then some. "I can see that you are wondering how it is that I knew your name and that of your fathers?"

"Yes, I am."

"Well that will all come in good time," he said swiftly. "Before I get onto the business I came here to discuss I must ascertain one thing so as not to waste either of our time. Is it true that you are currently without your obligation as a housecarl?"

"Figures that's what you would be coming here to ask," she muttered darkly, her shoulders dropping and her face making a deep scowl. "Did Camilla and Gerdur send you over here to try to get more gossip from me about Elsa?"

"Oh, no! You are quite mistaken!" Phane said, his face showing genuine shock at her reaction. "I did not mean any offence by the question or to imply that I was curious about the affairs of your Thane. Quite the contrary! I have no desire or care to know about your mistress's dealings."

"Then why are you asking about my duties to her?" she hissed, staring him straight in the face.

His long fingers played with the stem of a goblet sitting on the table while he watched her with his intense honey eyes. She felt uncomfortable under his gaze, but could not seem to pull away from his intense stare. "Have you ever read the work of Lentulus Inventius regarding the beasts in Skyrim?" he finally asked, breaking the small silence that had fallen between them.

"Name sounds familiar, but I don't see what this has to do –" she started, stopping abruptly as he raised a single finger, signaling for her to wait and be patient.

"Inventius traveled to Skyrim to write a faithful account on an evil that has plagued this land for centuries. Now the book itself has little useful information other than showing the fear of most people towards the vile creatures he was researching. He eventually waved off the stories of the beasts as fantasies despite what you and I both know to be true. Can you guess what it is that he studied?"

"I'm in no mood for a guessing game," she answered irritably, but with a prodding look from the stranger, she sighed and tried to think of something. "I don't know. Sabre cats."

"Werewolves," he said quickly and quietly, not even commenting on her guess as his features darkened to something both passionate and full of hate, his fingers curling into a tight fist.

Lydia heard herself gasp slightly at the mention of the beasts, her body stiffening with both anger and fear. "Werewolves?" she whispered back, her eyes darting around to see that no one was listening. "You are here about werewolves?"

"Yes," he said curtly, leaning in closer to her so that his face was only inches from hers. He looked about to see that no one was paying them any attention before starting to talk in a low, fervent whisper. "I know of your father's death, Lydia. I know that it was one of those _evil beasts_ that attacked him on his rounds."

"He had just been made guard captain for Rorikstead and was doing the night watch on the roads outside of the town," she managed to choke out, her eyes stinging as hot tears began to fill them. Anger began to tighten her muscles, creating a heavy feeling on her chest and neck. "It _fed_ on him. There was barely anything left of him to take to the Hall of the Dead," she finished, her shaking hands making tight fists that caused the nails to bit into her skin.

"I was ten," the Breton said darkly, the hatred and anger clear in his voice. "We lived on a farm and it found my mother first. By the time we reacted to her screams it was already on top of my twin sister, ripping her into pieces. My father told me to run. I hid in our cellar while it murdered my father. They are beasts that slaughter innocent men, women and children!" he finished in a shrill tone, slamming his fist into the table.

"They never found the monster that killed my father," she agreed passionately, her dark eyes narrowing her while her mouth became a hard line. "I wonder how many others it has killed."

"That is why I've come searching for you," he said quickly, his slender hands reaching out and grabbing hers. "I knew that you were like me and that you would want to see the animals put down as much as I do. Come join me and we can bring justice to our families!"

For a moment, she felt a zealous _yes_ forming on her tongue when suddenly the giggles from near Orgnar's counter pulled her attention from his passionate eyes and back to the reality of the inn. _I can't leave. I still have a duty to Elsa_, she thought sadly, pulling her hands away from the Breton. "I swore an oath," she started to explain, seeing the man's beautiful features drop into disappointment. "I can't leave here while my mistress may need me."

"So you don't care that as we speak those beasts roam free with no one stopping them? You don't care that they could be brutality killing and eating another family?"

"How can you even say that? Of course I care! Do think that the death of my father meant nothing to me?"

"I thought it did," Phane answered softly, his honey eyes giving her a look of pity that made her stomach turn uneasily. "But then again, I thought that you honored your father and his name enough to want to seek vengeance. Perhaps I was wrong."

His words were like a hot embers being pressed against her skin, the biting shame that filled her leaving her speechless as he stood and gave her one last look. "I am traveling to Falkreath. I plan to stay there for a week, should your sense of duty find itself directed towards honoring the name of Ergnir Red-Spear."

Lydia watched in silence as the Breton strode out of the inn, his words echoing in her mind. She looked down at her cold dinner, no longer feeling hungry as the strange conversation and the memories it dredged up mixed with the anger and frustration she felt towards Riverwood and Farkas. There seemed to be just too much to think about and too many feelings swirling inside of her. She began to feel that overwhelming pressure fill her chest just like when she had learned her father had died. Once more she found herself faced with many choices that could change her fate with no one to guide her in her decision.

"All done, Lydia?" Orgnar asked, startling her from her thoughts with his sudden presence at her side.

"What?" she asked in a daze, giving the barkeep a confused look before realizing that the bar had emptied and she alone remained sitting in the common room. "Oh, yes, I suppose I am."

"Have a good night then. Room should be all swept with fresh candles," he finished with a brisk nod, taking away her untouched dinner and moving towards his own quarters.

Sighing, she slowly pushed herself up from the table. Her body felt heavy and tired as the hurricane of her emotions drained her of her energy. Shuffling to her room, she quickly blew out the candles and flopped listlessly on her bed, hoping for some sleep and a new perspective in the morning. But sleep would not come. Slowly the hours passed, her thoughts unable to quiet as she tossed and turned in her rented bed. _Vengeance_, her mind repeated over and over. To finally seek out vengeance on the creatures that tore her father to pieces. To be able to take her sword in her father's name and exact the justice that was never given to her father's murderer, it was a dream she had long thought impossible to fulfill. Then, when her responsibilities that came with her oath were hazy a Breton shows up to offer her the one thing she had always wanted, she couldn't help but feel elated and suspicious all at once. It just seemed too convenient and too perfect. Nothing in life was handed to anyone without a little work put into it. What had she done to earn this chance to finally put to rest the last lingering bit of her father?

_Perhaps it is fate, _she argued in the darkness of her room. "Maybe Elsa's absence leaving me with nothing to do is the opportunity the gods have been waiting for to give me this chance."

The more she thought of her father and the image of his shredded body filled her mind the more she began to believe the truth behind her argument. Elsa was lost to her. There was nothing more that she could do for her friend and her Thane. Remaining in Riverwood doing nothing but small odd jobs was not getting Elsa better. Why not do the one thing she had vowed to do all those years ago when she had buried her father? The gods were giving her a chance to honor his memory and seek vengeance against the abominations that had taken her father's life. If she did not take this chance she knew that she would feel shame every time she passed the Hall of the Dead in Whiterun, knowing that her father still waited to be avenged.

Sitting up in her bed, she felt a surge of energy fill her as her decision became fully formed. She would travel to Falkreath and accept the offer made by the Breton. Her father's memory demanded it, as did her own sense of honor and love for the man that had raised her. _But first Whiterun,_ she thought as she quickly put on her armor and gathered up her things. She did not care that it was the middle of the night or that she had no sleep as she set out for the city she called home, memories of her childhood flooding her mind during her short journey.

She had not thought of her father and his death in a very long time. At least not more than just a passing memory and a small pang of sadness as her entire life became consumed with the god and the monster that was Elsa. His death had still been fresh when she had been assigned to the Nord girl and quickly her loss was covered by dragon attacks, civil war, and the growing power of the Dragonborn. Then, when the war was over and the dragons defeated, she was faced with the sharp decline of her mistress and defending her honor. Now it was finally time for Elsa's hold on her life to lift and allow her to do what she never had been able to do. It was time to bring justice to her father's killer.

_You are doing the right thing,_ she told herself as dawn began to lighten the sky just as she entered the city and made her way to Breezehome. It looked like a skeleton to her against the dull winter sky, the door creaking like old bones as she opened it. _This is not my home anymore_, she realized as she entered the dust-covered house, its empty hearth reflecting the cold and pointless life she and Elsa had led there. She moved past it, determined not to dwell on her lingering guilt for her Thane's state or to question if there was anything she could have done different. Instead she focused on her last self-imposed task as a housecarl, reaching her room and locating the small chest she had kept hidden beneath her bed.

Opening it, she looked at its sparse contents, carefully noting each in turn. There was a hand-drawn portrait of her father and mother that a family friend had done before she had even been conceived. For a long time she stared at her mother's kind expression wishing not for the first time her life that she had had the opportunity to know her. But the gods had fated her to be left alone with her father, a good, strict man that had taught her about honor and duty. He had been honest and hardworking until his last day, fulfilling his duty to protect his town even though it meant sacrificing his own life.

"I will avenge you, papa," she whispered, touching the picture gently and laying it aside. All that remained in the chest was a small book whose leather cover was stained black from being thrown in a fire and two gold rings. Lydia could still remember a time when Elsa would pull the little volume from her pack and feverishly scribble in it by the light of their campfire. She hadn't understood her Thane's obsession with the little diary, but she had accepted that it was important to her friend. She knew it was partially this that had made her pull the journal from the hearth when Elsa had thrown it in the fire while in a drunken fit. It had been one of the girl's prized possessions and Lydia doubted that she truly wanted it destroyed.

Staring at the burnt cover she wondered not for the first time what Elsa had written in it. She had been tempted many times to read her Thane's private thoughts, but she always stopped herself before breaking one of the unwritten rules of being a housecarl; never spy on your master. Instead she had locked it away with the rings waiting for the right time to return them to her friend when she was well.

_She will need these, _she thought as she left the house with her treasures pressed tightly to her chest. They had once been her Thane's most prized possessions, but with her drinking she had viewed them more as a curse than tokens of a life she once had. _She will want them when she is better,_ she told herself again as she marched to Jorrvaskr for what she knew could be a final goodbye.

She entered the hall of the Companions silently, not surprised to see the tables empty and the fire burning low. Creeping quietly down the stairs, she made directly for Farkas' chamber, rapping lightly on the door. She felt her heart push against her chest with each nervous beat as she waited.

"He is not here," a voice suddenly called out from behind her.

Turning, she saw Kodlak looking at her expectantly. "Where is he?"

"Farkas is gone on a mission," he said softly. "He won't be back for some time."

"Oh. I didn't know he had any jobs lined up."

"This one came up quite suddenly. Is there something I can help you with?"

Lydia felt torn knowing that it might be weeks before she would come back to Whiterun and see Farkas again. She hated not being able to say goodbye. Then again he hadn't seemed too upset when he told her that he wasn't going to be able to visit her as much as he had promised he would. In fact, he seemed more annoyed that she had gotten upset over his sudden withdrawal saying that she should understand that he had duties. _Well I have duties too,_ she thought bitterly as she solidified her resolve to push forward. "I am going on a mission myself and I don't know when I will be back."

"And you would like me to tell Farkas this?"

"I cannot wait, Kodlak, or I would tell him myself. So please, if you could."

The old Harbinger sighed, rubbing his brow with tired, wrinkled hands. "It would be better coming from you, but I understand how time can ruin even the best intentions. I will pass on your message."

"Also, I have some of Elsa's things," she said quickly, holding out a small scorched book that she had guarded in her room for nearly seven years.

"What is this?" he asked, taking the book and carefully opening it.

She watched as he flipped through a few pages, his brow coming together as he read further. "It's Elsa's diary," she explained.

"And you wish me to give it to her?"

"I just want you to hold on to it. I just get a feeling that it will be important for her to look at someday. That's why I pulled it from the fire when she tried to burn it. Someday she'll want it and the memories in it."

"I see," Kodlak said, regarding the book carefully. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, these," she answered, pulling out two gold rings from her pocket and handing them to the Harbinger. "She'll definitely want these at some point."

"I can imagine you're right," he answered. "I will see to it that she gets them when the time is right."

"Thank you, Kodlak. May the gods keep you."

"May Talos guide you, Lydia, on your journey," he answered as she marched out the door, leaving behind the life she had lived for a decade.

* * *

><p>*the lullaby is "När månen vandrar"<p> 


	14. The Corruption of Power

AN: Apologies for the nearly…6 month delay? Has it really been that long? And I also apologize since I know I missed responding so some of the reviews this last time around. I would make excuses, but as valid as they are they are still just excuses. So if you are one of the reviewers I missed I am deeply sorry. For my non-account holding reviewers, know that I appreciated every single review you have given and I am sorry as well for the delay.

I would like to also extend a thank you to DualKatanas as he has helped motivate me and improve my writing. I also would like to apologize for still not finishing his wonderful work Blood and Steel. For those who have not read it, it is probably my favorite Elder Scrolls piece and worth reading.

With that being said, this chapter will start a cascade of events. Some things might not be clear but they will be cleared up in the course of the next few chapters. As always I hope you enjoy and leave a review just as much as I hope I can be better at updating regularly.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 14<strong>

Phane couldn't help but smile when he saw the dark-haired Nord ride into town. She wore full armor that accented her strong shoulders and toned arms. Immediately he silently thanked Burn for the recommendation. She was exactly what he needed, skilled, tested, and use to being an obedient servant. The more he thought of his three new recruits the more he saw the value of bringing Lydia into their ranks, woman or not.

"Is that the woman you told me about last night?" he asked the Nord farmer who stood next to him, doing his best to keep his features pleasant despite the man's stench of pig manure and chicken droppings.

The man turned to his wife, looking for her assurance before answering. "Aye, that's her."

"Tell me again what you know of her, Mathies."

The Nord again turned to his wife who, though mannered like an Imperial, appeared more Red Guard than a native of Cyrodiil. "Little. She was a housecarl in Whiterun. Fought with the Dragonborn some time ago."

"Yes," Phane answered dully, "I believe she did. Do you know anything else of her life? A husband, perhaps? Other connections?"

"I don't know much," he answered with a shrug, falling into the silence his countrymen seemed to employ only to annoy the more civilized races of Nirn. Phane, though, decided not to let the man's lack of information bother him. He had asked enough questions of enough people to have a greater understanding of the woman he had met in Riverwood.

"She be joining you, then?" Indara asked, moving to her husband's side protectively. "The Dragonborn, too?"

"No, only Lydia."

"Good."

Phane ignored the woman's continued chatter as he moved away from the couple. Mathies would be useful for his training, but he had little hopes for the man to be involved in his plans much beyond his work in Skyrim. Lydia, on the other hand, already piqued his interest in a much more significant way. Moving towards her, he called out and gave her one of the smiles the countesses of Cyrodiil swooned over. "I'm glad to see you've joined us!"

"What kind of Nord would I be if I didn't avenge my father's death?" she answered, her stony face easing as she met his eye. "You made a compelling argument."

"It speaks greatly of your honor," he replied, holding out his hand in a sign of friendship. Lydia looked at him for a moment before dropping from her horse and taking it, her calloused palms feeling strangely delightful against his smooth skin.

"I recognize that farmer there. Who is he?

"Mathies. His daughter was killed by one of the beasts. We also are joined by Andrian Maro, a son of the late commander, on our crusade."

"An Imperial?"

"A man seeking justice," he answered, motioning for her to follow him down the street a short distance. "I understand you had some role in the war here, but I ask that you forget any past alliances as we begin our adventure."

She frowned, her eyes looking past him as she took in what he had said. Phane could almost see the struggle that was playing through her mind as her jaw tightened and the creases in her brow deepening with each passing moment. When she finally spoke, her words were tight and guarded like a good soldier expressing discontent with their commander. It made Phane smile.

"The war was a dirty business. It's hard to forget things like that."

"Was it worse than a mangled body that has been fed on by one of the wolves?"

"Maybe."

"Will you be able to work with him?"

"Seeing the severed head of a three year old rotting in a basket is enough to leave its mark," she answered, her dark eyes locking onto his. "I don't work with anyone who kills innocents intentionally."

"I see," he answered, stepping closer to her and dropping his voice. "I understand your concerns, but Andrian did not have such a great role in the war. In fact he returned to Cyrodiil shortly after the destruction of Helgen. Can you work with a man who lost a father, just like you? Even if that man wore red instead of blue?"

"You know my concerns," she said slowly, "But I won't put the sins of his countrymen on his shoulders unless he gives me a reason."

"Good! Then it's settled," he said, pulling away with a large smile that he knew made his face smooth into something a sculpture would die to carve. It was one of many well-rehearsed expressions that he was pleased to see worked on even the Nords, stubborn as they were. Lydia smiled with him, just as he had wanted her too, planting the seed of agreeability early into their relationship.

"So where do we start with all this?" she asked as he led her back to the farmer's cottage. "Do you have any idea how to find the monsters?"

"I know many things about the beasts that most don't. I have devoted my life to learning about the abominations, discovering their habits and the signs of being cursed."

"Have you killed many?"

"Only two," he admitted, his fists clenching as he thought of the ones that had escaped him. "They are difficult to kill even in their human form. That is why we need a team."

"Alright, but where do we go from here? Do you have a target in mind?"

Phane stopped and turned to Lydia, his eyes holding hers. "I do, but we aren't ready for that yet."

"What do you mean? Who is it?"

"I think I know where the source of the curse is," he started slowly, making sure she hung on each word. "But it's a den of the monsters, so we need to train, have the proper weapons, and have a plan."

"A whole den? Do you think that even with four of us we could do something like that?"

"I think with the four of us leading others that are trained, we could."

"Others?"

Her brow creased in confusion and a wariness slowly built in her eyes. Phane had seen that look before on the Countess of Leyawiin when he had asked for nearly seven thousand gold that was currently being used to smith silver swords. Giving the cautious Nord a small smile, he leaned in closer, letting his hand lightly touch her back. "There will be others, Lydia. Many others."

"Like an army?"

"No, more like the Fighters Guild of Cyrodiil. We need men and women committed to solving the problem of not only wolves, but vampires, witches, and necromancers. All those vile creatures that plague our good lands, kill the innocent, and destroy the hundreds of lives will be our target. I dream of a day when we have trained enough warriors to recognize an abomination and bring it to justice that we no longer have children being murdered in their sleep, or lovers taken too soon."

"I don't know. I have already fought in one man's upstart army and I'm not interested in another."

"This is no army," he said, using his hand to turn her to fully face him. "This will be a guild. Working under the laws of the Jarls, for the holds and its people."

"You would answer to the Jarls?"

"Of course," he answered, giving her a confident yet humble smile. "What are we but servants of the people? I have no desire to start a militant revolution."

Her shoulders relaxed under his hands, marking that she believed his words. _Just like a good soldier,_ he thought as he started walking again, answering whatever few questions she still had. She would be useful to him, he decided. More so than Maro or Mathies. It was obvious that she followed a code of honor and pride, fighting for convictions rather than just revenge. It was the beliefs of someone that had not seen enough of the world to realize that such little ideals were childish and unrealistic. Sure, she had seen her fair share of battle from what he had been told, but unlike Andrian who had been all over the empire, and Mathies who had at least lived both in Cyrodiil and Skyrim, she only understood the Nord way of life.

He could manipulate ideals far easier than the jaded, mercenary outlook of a more worldly person. He could trust and easily predict the reactions of someone that held strongly to simple beliefs, making them the most loyal of servants. Lydia would be just that; his loyal follower, helping him destroy his enemies and gain the power that rightfully should have been his. She would do it thinking that they were helping the people, bringing peace and protection to those she loved. She would be completely blind to the true nature of his plans until they were in place, and by that time her beliefs and ideals would match his own making her rejoice in their rise to power rather than fight it.

Glancing at the dark-haired warrior, he felt that finally the gods were answering his prayers. Things were coming together and soon he would have everything that was meant to be his.

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><p>Vilkas couldn't sleep once they had arrived back at Jorrvaskr. It was late into the night and his body was fatigued but his mind wouldn't calm. A new nightmare plagued him, one that was free of wolves but filled with voices urging him to give into his primal rages, moving his hands to react without wisdom.<p>

Closing his eyes, he could still see the face of the man he had killed, his skin covered in dry blood and his eyes wild with insanity. _The voice told me to do it_, he heard in his head over and over again, building his uncertainty to the mysterious influence he had been feeling for weeks now. He began to question all of his actions; killing the men speaking of the Silver Hand, his anger that constantly was driving him to act aggressively, even the argument he had with Farkas, it was all things he deep down _wanted _to do and felt the _need _to do but he had done them without thought and without wisdom. Was this the influence of the beast that raged inside him, longing to get out? Or was he losing his grasp on his self-control and his mind, causing him to become delusional in all of his perceptions?

"Am I insane?" he called out, his words directed towards the gods or whomever it was that cared about the worries of mortals. "Am I being punished for something?"

A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. "Vilkas?" his brother's muffled voice came through the door.

"What?" he snarled, feeling his blood heat as if a fire had erupted inside his chest. He couldn't control the temper that had plagued him for years as his nights of poor sleep and the endless questions continued to build.

The door opened slowly, his larger twin peering at him questioningly. "Are you alright?"

"Fine. I just…I just have many things on my mind."

"I know the feeling," his twin muttered, his normally dull features growing dark for a moment before returning to their normal indifference. Vilkas again felt a stirring of curiosity over his brother's behavior, but was immediately distracted from asking his questions by Farkas' quick message. "Kodlak wishes to see you. Something about Elsa."

His gut twisted at mention of the Dragonborn. He had nearly forgotten about her and the mission he had taken her on prior to rescuing the boy and felt his temper flair at the undesired reminder. "Tell him I will come shortly," he snapped, moving to shut the door before Farkas had a chance to argue.

He could sense his brother lingering outside, but he shut his eyes, ignoring the presence as his troubled mind attempted to calm. He could feel the anger deep inside of him, waiting to burst free and bring the wolf with it. It knew that he was breaking. The crazed murder had caused the first major crack in his ability to drown out the constant calling of the blood. His mind was no longer as strong as it had been and he had begun to question the world around him, and worse, himself.

"You are Vilkas of the Companions," he told himself slowly. "You are a student of Kodlak, the brother of Farkas, and the shield-sibling to Aela and Skjor. You are a mentor to Athis, Njada, and Ria. You have saved lives and brought justice. You have protected your family and fought bravely against your enemies. You are an honorable man nothing like that murder of children and devourer of human flesh. You are strong and honorable."

The words felt hollow, but he forced himself to trust in them like he always had. Mistakes were often made in the heat of a mission, and few would question the death of a murderer, insane or not. Still, he could not completely chase the feeling of uneasy dread that lingered deep in his gut as he went to Kodlak's rooms.

As always, the old man was sitting at his table, books spread before him like a feast of knowledge. Normally Vilkas would have been excited to see what his mentor was reading, joining in on whatever topic had the man's attention at the moment. Yet with the Harbinger's state of mind being what it was, there was no need to ask. He was consumed with learning about their curse, just as Vilkas' was consumed with questions of sanity.

"What have you come to decide?" the old man asked, barely looking up from one of his old tomes. "How did the Dragonborn perform?"

"She is not worthy of the Companions."

Kodlak sighed, his head shaking as he stared at his young pupil. "And since she is not worthy of the Companions she is therefore not worthy of life itself. That is a most unfortunate judgment."

"I never said such a thing," Vilkas said quickly. "I only mean that she is not a warrior. She should live out her days somewhere else."

The old Harbinger gave his pupil a long look, his tired eyes holding an intensity that his body had been lacking for the last few years as his disease had progressed. It was like staring at the old Kodlak, the strong leader who thought little of death and the life that waited for them after. For a moment, he was the man Vilkas had grown to view as a father, his voice losing the tired anxiety and becoming once more strong and authoritative. "Vilkas, do you remember what I said when you first questioned me on inviting Elsa to stay with us?"

"Only that Vignar felt guilty in doing his duty and you were hopeful that she would change."

"Yes, but more importantly that empathy is trait all good leaders must have. Tell me, in making your decision did you try to understand her? Did you learn anything about her? What drove your decision?"

"She is unable to fight effectively, she is destructive, and barely has the stamina to kill a few rodents."

"Yet she had enough stamina to carry a frightened child back from the wilderness?"

Vilkas felt his mouth go dry. He had completely forgotten about the journey home from the ruin as his mind was filled with fear over his sanity. Yet at the Harbinger's words, he could clearly see her determined eyes staring straight ahead as she marched forward. Even when her arms started to shake, she refused to release the child. He had no answer for where the strength had come from or how she was able to do what she did when the skeevers gave her so much difficulty, just as he had no answer for what drove his actions or who it was that was whispering in his mind.

"What did you learn about her, Vilkas?" the old man pressed. "More than how she completed her task. Tell me what you discovered about who she is and what is at her core."

The young warrior shut his eyes and focused on the past few days, trying to recall anything. He could hear the disappointment behind his master's words and wanted nothing more than to do as his teacher, friend, and adopted father asked.

"She has a friend named Ralof."

"Is that all?"

"I was sent to evaluate her skill, Kodlak, and that's what I did. She is no warrior and should be returned to Lydia's care. We are fighters not nannies!"

"Lydia has gone, Vilkas," Kodlak answered, his pale eyes piercing him as he felt his mouth drop open. "She left while you and Farkas were gone."

"Does Farkas know this?"

"I left her letter to him in his room."

Once more, Vilkas found himself realizing little signs that something wasn't as it seemed much later than he once would have. He had always prided himself in his sharp eye and keen sense of smell, but he hadn't even questioned Farkas' change in mood. "When will she be back?"

"She didn't say and I didn't ask. I have the sense, though, that it will be some time."

"What makes you say that?"

"She took the time to leave some of Elsa's things here," he answered, holding up a small pouch and a tattered looking book. "And after seeing this I am more convinced of her staying here with us."

Vilkas felt his jaw clench as his anger seemed to burn in him with barely anything to spark it. Although no voice spoke to him, he felt the righteous pull of honor and respect. "Kodlak, why can't you see that she is useless? She is not worthy of the Companions just as she is not worthy of her titles."

"So despite her actions with the boy you would still send her out?"

"Yes."

"Where would you have her go?"

"That is not my concern. She could go back to her home. She's not even a true daughter of Skyrim."

"Ah, yes. Cyrodiil, the place she was born," Kodlak answered with a sad smile. "Home to the Empire and run by the Thalmor. A lovely home it would make for any who were not considered a hero of Skyrim's fight for independence."

"Then she could go elsewhere. Have Jarl Vignar petition the High King to have her settled somewhere if she truly can't leave our borders."

"But you see, Vilkas, that is where the trouble lies. I have to admit that even I was not fully aware of how dire her situation was until Lydia provided me the means to enlightenment."

"What do you mean?"

"I always thought it was odd that the High King would turn so quickly on the hero of his war, not to mention the dragon crisis."

"She nearly burned Windhelm to the ground with her shouting! I don't think any king would easily forgive the damage she caused."

"Here," the old man said in a tired voice that seemed to match the deepening lines that marred his skin. "Take the book Lydia left. Read it and learn. She is worthy of us and I fear that we will be calling on her aid before the snows have melted. I need you to trust her."

Vilkas took the book, surprised by the Harbinger's direct statement. Normally his mentor asked questions and directed his thoughts to the correct answer. Yet today there were no soft words and supportive teaching, it was only worry and frustration that seemed to fill him as he dismissed his young pupil.

He couldn't understand the sudden shift in Kodlak, just as he couldn't understand his continued support of the Dragonborn. _Perhaps he's hearing the voice too,_ he thought, knowing how it had warned him about the impending threat of the Silver Hand and their way of life. If it was coming from their curse and the daedric prince that claimed them, then he would not doubt that others were hearing the call as well. Still, deep down he doubted whether this was the case. It seemed like only his mind was plagued with the constant intrusion of another, his dreams restless and dark.

Sitting on his bed, he stared at the book he was given, his mind far from what it contained. The voice had been quiet since leaving the ruins, leaving him to finally be able to see what was happening around him with a clear eye. There was turmoil in his family over their curse, love, threats, and even the presence of the Dragonborn. He had never experienced such a rift, hidden emotions, and secret agendas amongst the Circle. The silent divide that had formed in their little group was dangerous should trouble truly come to find them.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts, followed by his twin opening the door. "I have to deliver the boy to his home."

"I'll come," Vilkas said quickly, rising from the bed. He knew Farkas was looking at him, trying to see if he should refuse the offer, but Vilkas wouldn't let him. He needed to be out of the quiet and distracted from his thoughts. He had begun to fear the silence and solitude he had once loved, knowing that it brought with it questions he feared.

He refused to be a prisoner of his room and of his mind. Tossing the journal aside, he followed his brother confident that in the very least he was a true shield sibling of the Companions, rift or no.

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><p>There was something comforting in hearing the quick little breaths of a child sleeping that soothed Elsa far more than any other sound in the world. As she leaned back in the chair next to the poor boy's bed, she let her eyes close and the world to be washed away in the innocent simplicity of a child being safe in bed. For a moment she could forget the deep ache she felt gnawing at her chest and put aside the bitterness that filled her veins. If she kept still and quiet, she could almost believe that her current state was nothing but a dream and that she was at home, living the life that should have been hers.<p>

Yet the momentary reprieve couldn't last. Deep down, she knew that it was only the poisonous hope that somehow still maintained a root in her heart, but that didn't make it any easier to be ripped back to her cold reality with the sound of heavy boots on the hard floor.

"I have to bring the boy home," Farkas' deep voice rumbled.

"He's not ready," she said quickly, opening her eyes and staring at the large warrior as if he were nothing more than a boy himself asking for a sweet roll. "He needs sleep and food."

"He can get that at home. His parents will want him returned immediately."

"They can wait."

"That's not the job. I told you we would sleep and restock our supplies but then he had to be taken home."

"And I told you that any parent that would let their child out of their sight long enough to be taken by a decrepit madman clearly wouldn't miss their child for a day or two more."

Farkas frowned, his face looking more tired than normal and lacking any of the simple cheerfulness that came naturally to him. "No parent would want to wait longer than necessary for their missing child to be brought back home. The boy will survive the short trip without being coddled here."

"Then I'm coming too."

"No," came the voice of Vilkas. "We don't have time to watch you and the boy."

"Then you won't be leaving," she answered, crossing her arms as she stood in front of the child. "Either you take me or you don't go at all."

She could see shock in both of the men's faces, their eyes growing wide as they exchanged a quick glance. Yet she didn't care if she overstepped some idiotic Companion rule or social norm by speaking out against a member of the Circle. All she cared about was the boy and his welfare. He slept soundly now, but like so many children orphaned in the civil war once the exhaustion wore off she knew that the nightmares would start. She could not see the two Nord warriors understanding that sort of thing and she would sooner return to Cyrodiil than leave a fragile, frightened child with either of them.

"Fine," Farkas finally answered, his voice lacking any of the kindness that had once been there. "We don't have time to argue, so gather him up and come along. This trip already will take us most of tonight and all of tomorrow."

Elsa smiled, her smirk only growing as Vilkas stared dumbfounded at his brother. It was a small victory, but she felt a certain amount of pride over getting her way. Quickly waking the boy, she followed the two Nords from Jorrvaskr to the city stables.

"Hail, Companions," the cart driver called at their approach. "Are you in need of my services today?"

"Yes," Farkas answered. "We are going to Stormspring."

"Stormspring?" Elsa asked, a pit forming in her stomach. "In Eastmarch?"

"Yes," Farkas asked, handing some money to the driver. "That's where his family is."

"Is that a problem, Dragonborn?" Vilkas asked, his eyes as cold as his question.

She stared at the man, knowing that he and his brother knew she was banished from every hold but Whiterun. It was no great secret, even if the true reason behind her banishment by Ulfric Stormcloak was more than just debts and a small fire.

For a moment, she considered not going. She knew full well what would wait her in the High King's hold. Yet as she looked at the boy's fearful and confused eyes, she decided that the risk wasn't important. She would not leave his side until she knew that he was safe.

"I'm fine," she answered, climbing up into the cart with the others. Gathering up the child, she felt an odd happiness fill her as he wrapped his chubby arms around her and soon was sleeping again. Closing her own eyes, she could almost picture herself living the dream that she had once had for her life. A home with children that would spend their days happily playing only to cuddle up next to her in front of the fire at night. It was a dream that would never come true, but for the first time in years sleep found her happy in her fantasy rather than the bitter thoughts of reality.

0.0.0

It was well past dark when the lurching cart finally woke her. Neither of the brothers spoke as she looked around to see that they were nearly at the town that was the boy's home. The little settlement was newer, growing out of the ashes of the war and thriving off expansion of Windhelm. The quick spike of the hold's greatest city meant many small towns emerged to provide it with crops, wood, and other essential materials impossible to create in an urban setting. Stormspring looked prosperous enough, with large thatch-roofed homes, neatly kept streets, and a variety of shops and traders showing their wares. It was the kind of town to raise a family in, being big enough to have it's own guard barracks but small enough to avoid the poverty and beggars of places like Solitude and Markarth.

"We're nearly there," she whispered, nudging the child awake. "You're nearly home."

The boy sat up, his eyes blinking away the heavy sleep. "We're here?"

"Yes," she answered as the cart slowed to a stop. Rising, she led the boy to the edge where Farkas quickly lifted him out while Vilkas spoke with the weeping parents. Elsa felt her heart ache as the boy rushed get to his mother's outstretched arms, not even sparing a glance back at her. It was an old pain of loss and regret as she watched the stream of tears from the child's mother and the way he clung to her for safety and comfort.

_Stop watching this,_ she ordered herself as her mind quickly filled with the images of the people she had loved. This could have easily been her sister in Bruma, comforting one of her children after they had fallen in the street. Or her brother, stonily keeping his feelings hidden under a façade of strength and gratitude to a stranger that had helped his family. Yet they were dead, just as her own hopes and dreams had died nearly ten years earlier. There would be no children in her life that ran to her for comfort, no husband to be the strong rock anchoring her family during dark times. There were no nieces and nephews, no sisters or brothers. There was no one and there never would be.

"Are you alright?" Farkas asked suddenly, making her jump as she tore her eyes from the happy family.

She looked up at him, recognizing the longing that shone through his eyes. For the first time she felt a sort of understanding for a member of the Companions as she read his defeated expression. Turning away from the loving scene, she felt her old bitterness biting the back of her throat. "Families aren't for warriors."

"It's done," Vilkas called, moving towards them. "We should stay in the inn for the night."

"Fine," his brother answered dully.

Making their way to the inn, it was a quick process of getting food, finding their rooms, and laying in their beds with little room for talk or chatter. Elsa was more than fine with Vilkas' surly glares and Farkas' gloomy silence. She had nothing to say to either of the Nords especially now that her purpose was done. Instead, she let her little fantasy from earlier fill her mind as sleep took her.

It was barely dawn when a loud pounding on the door woke her. She groggily opened her eyes only to see a man dressed in Stormcloak blue bursting through the door. Had it been a decade earlier she would have been on her feet, sword in hand, but her reflexes were still sluggish and she barely managed to sit up when thick arms wrapped around her, yanking her from the bed.

Her first instinct was to struggle, but she smothered it as the realization of what was happening settled in. _Ulfric knows I'm here,_ she thought darkly as a memory of flames and a job left undone filled her mind. She had pushed the thoughts away over the last decade, anger and sorrow mixing with her drinks to leave her incapacitated. Yet now as she was shoved from the inn, Farkas and Villkas in tow, and her hands were roughly bound she could only think of the revenge she sought and the wrongs she had suffered at the hands of the High King.

"What's going on here?" Vilkas called out as they were loaded into a prison cart. "We're members of the Companions. We have broken no laws."

The driver turned back to them, his face full of righteous conviction. "Only criminals travel with criminals."

Vilkas turned to his brother before giving her an icy glare. "You. You are the cause of this!"

Elsa shrugged, closing her eyes as she ignored the world around her. It was what she had done in Helgen, though at the time she actually feared the unknown fate that was waiting for her in the Imperial stronghold. She had been ignorant then of who were her enemies and how they operated, but in the aftermath of the war she had learned a hard lesson in trust. Ulfric Stormcloak had showed his true colors that horrible night in Solitude and his failure to finish what he started was just one more piece to the complex puzzle of Elsa's life.

Still, Ulfric was no fool. He understood the power of public opinion and how to be patient. She had witnessed firsthand how he would wait for an opportunity to do what he wanted without having to get his hands dirty. Everything he did, from sparking the war to starting what would be a cascade of banishments for Elsa, he did for his own hidden agenda all the while twisting it so that he looked like a wise and just ruler. But she knew the truth, and although it would not do for the High King to personally call for the head of the Dragonborn ten years earlier, she had no doubts that that was the fate he had in mind for her.

"Where are you taking us?" Farkas asked.

"Windhelm," the driver answered curtly, as if it should have been obvious. Where else would they go but to the seat of power in Skyrim? True, the High Kings traditionally sat on the throne of the Blue Palace in Solitude, but Ulfric Stormcloak had refused. It had been a large piece of gossip in the markets for weeks, the peasants quoting his retort that the Blue Palace had been tainted and that he would never sit in a chair once occupied by a Thalmor's mistress. Instead, Ulfric had made Windhelm the new capitol, far from the borders of Skyrim and the corrupted influence of the Mer. As such, the city had grown exponentially in the last decade, the market expanding with the expulsion of the dark elves and the palace adding numerous additions to fit the growing court.

Yet to Elsa all of it seemed like a lie. As they entered the city she couldn't help but see the old stone buildings and think it was no different than Helgen. The skeletal remains of the once proud city covered by new wood and rock to hide what it had been before the return of the dragons, before the civil war. There had been a time when she had looked at Windhelm as a second home as she worked with the Stormcloaks to secure Skyrim's independence, but before the war ended her eyes had been opened to the hungry power-grabbing that was Ulfric Stormcloak.

"So is it straight to the executioners block?" she asked the guard as they passed up a wide, open street that ended in the shadows of the towering palace. He was young and probably only remembered the war vaguely through the clouded memories of a child. She doubted he could even guess the atrocities committed by both sides during the fighting. The innocent blood shed to bully the other side into backing down, women and children slaughtered in their beds in acts of revenge. She regretted ever being involved.

"The High King has ordered you tried for treason."

"Oh is that what I am now? A traitor?"

The youth looked at her, his eyes filled with disgust. It was the same look she got from the different city guards after she finally had been subdued enough to be arrested for whatever crime she had committed that day. Destruction of property, assault, owing more gold than she could even fathom being able to repay, all of it had led to the other holds following Windhelm's example of banishing her and stripping her of any titles she had once held. She doubted whether the boy even believed that she had once been held in high regard throughout the providence.

"You're a danger to the hold's safety," he recited with an obvious belief in the words. "The High King has ordered that should you disrespect his courtesy of banishment that you would be tried for your conspiracy and treason."

She couldn't help but laugh at that, ignoring the urgent expressions of Vilkas and Farkas that she keep quiet. "Conspiracy and treason? When did I commit those crimes?"

"You shouted at the High King and burned half of the palace down," the guard replied.

"Yes, I did do that when you were what? Eight? Maybe ten years old? Though I _was_ just following the example Ulfric set with Torygg. Perhaps the High King should be put on trial for the crimes he committed as a traitor? But I suppose the victor gets to decide what laws are followed and when. Murder really isn't murder if it's done for the good of the country, right?" she asked lightly, hiding the anger that was starting to build deep within her.

It was like the glowing coals of old wrongs and terrible deeds were being fanned the further they traveled into the city. Things she had already paid for in pain, blood, and death, but that wasn't enough for Ulfric. She had yet to sacrifice her own life for the man and his unworthy country and she knew that he was the kind of man that did not let loose ends go untied.

The boy stiffened in his seat at her words, showing the sort of blind loyalty that Ulfric seemed to inspire. "I don't know why the High King even banished you in the first place, traitor. He should have killed you instead, but he is merciful."

"No, he's not," she answered darkly before settling back into her seat. The guard looked back at her, his smooth skin and chubby cheeks looking ridiculous under his armor. He was a far cry from the soldiers that fought the civil war on either side.

Vilkas gave her another earnest look, willing her to be quiet while Farkas stared into space, almost not caring that their hands were bound and they were being carted like criminals to the High King. Laughing again, she felt Vilkas kick her roughly in an attempt to make her stop.

"What's so funny, scum?" the guard snapped, turning to stare at her again.

"Oh I was just thinking how the last time I sat in a cart with my hands bound it was Ulfric Stormcloak who sat next to me and a red uniform calling me a traitor. Things don't change much, do they?"

The boy stared at her, his mouth falling open a bit as he processed what she said. It was strange how easily people could forget the smaller details of messy things like wars. From what she could tell in the times she had been sober enough to remember a conversation about the High King, not many spoke of how he was the one that started the actual fighting; That he was the one that murdered his predecessor with the power of the Voice and that many had considered him the traitor at the time. Still, he had acted very swiftly against his enemies after winning Solitude, causing many of the nobles to forget their former ties and beliefs in the face of Ulfric's punishment of what he liked to call war crimes. It had been easier with the peasants who were more focused on the danger coming from the skies once the fighting had stopped. What was human war when a dragon could engulf an entire city in fire and ice in a matter of moments?

The dragons were probably the reason most never heard about the cruel deaths that happened in the basement of the Blue Palace. The tales of nobles fleeing to Cyrodiil went unquestioned and she had been too wrapped up in her own grief to use her power and popularity to expose Ulfric for what he truly was. Then she had succumbed to her own weaknesses, leaving few to actually listen to her slurred words of torture and murder.

A cold fury swirled in her as the gates of the palace grew closer and the thought of meeting the man who had robbed her of a life she barely had time to even dream of. She had tried to settle their score years ago, of course, but it had failed. _If I had been sober he would have died_.

"This is bad," Farkas whispered, pulling her from the self-loathing she was beginning to feel over what had been publically called the Drunken Fire of Windhelm in an attempt to hide her real motives while slandering her name during the height of her fame. It had been quite clever of Ulfric not to publically proclaim her a traitor at the time as many more followed her than they did him, but now things were different. She had lost her reputation and supporters along with her homes, her titles, her fame, and her fortune. She knew that she was only alive now because of Lydia and, more importantly, that she had lost her will to be in the world anymore, making little trouble for the High King in her drunken grief-filled stupor that had lasted nearly a decade.

"The Companions are no traitors," Vilkas answered, his light eyes flashing towards her angrily as he spoke. "We have an honorable reputation. The High King is wise and will not include us with _her._"

She laughed again, ignoring the dumbfounded stares and gasps of the people that lined the narrow city streets. "I wouldn't be so sure of his wisdom, Vilkas. Cunning, yes, wise, no."

"Quiet!" the guard shouted as he reached the palace gates.

They all complied as more soldiers appeared and quickly escorted them from the cart and through the large doors that led to the great hall. Elsa took in the grandiose changes the High King had made to his once dreary stronghold, adding velvets, furs, and jewel encrusted decorations along the stone walls. She barely recognized the throne room, the wide-open hall a far cry from the narrow, cold room it had once been. Yet, none of that compared to the changes in the man that lorded over the room.

The once hawk-eyed, grim Jarl now had all the airs of a well-fed prince. His clothes were rich and heavily ornamented, while his crown made his sloping nose and narrow eyes seem regal rather than calculating. Still, she could see traces of the man she had once thought of as a friend and ally, his eyes following her like she was a pest needing to be exterminated. She wished she had recognized that look earlier in their relationship for what it truly was, instead of believing him to be merely thinking about the war and his strategies. Then she might not have trusted him and accepted his invitation to the Blue Palace that fateful night.

She was pulled from the bitter thoughts as the soldiers roughly forced her and the two Nords to their knees before they cutting their bonds. Around her came the muttering of the various courtiers that had taken up residence in the King's city, her name quickly being followed by words like _drunk, reckless, _and _traitor_.

"Why are you here?" the High King called down from his metal and stone throne. "I made it clear you were no longer welcome in my hold."

Elsa stared up at him defiantly, the blood rushing to her cheeks making her face feel hot. "I'm doing a job, Ulfric," she answered, deliberately refusing to use his title. "I have debts and city fines to pay, remember? Isn't that why you _mercifully_ banished me years ago?"

"No, your banishment was for the danger you posed when you shouted at me and nearly destroyed the city in a fire. That was my mercy then, banishment over a death sentence for your attempted murder."

"My, my, my. So we're not calling that a drunken mistake anymore? Now I tried to murder you?" she laughed, feeling her hatred for the man building just as she had the night she _had_ attempted to end his horrible life. She was tired of the lies, both about her and his apparent mercy. Her next words caused a wave of gasps to fill the crowd as her smile took on an almost maniacal gleam. "You're being hypocritical considering that all I did was shout at you, which is something, if I recall, that you did to the last High King."

"What are you doing?" Vilkas hissed while Farkas put a hand on her shoulder to stop her while Ulfric stared at them dangerously. She ignored them, pulling away from the large warrior's grasp.

"And you fucking deserved it."

The guards on either side of the hall moved restlessly, but they kept in their places with a small wave of the High King's hand. She watched him as he put on the mask of a merciful and wise ruler, hiding the cruel and unforgiving nature that was naturally his. "Elsa, you were instrumental in the war and destroying the dragons. For that and that alone I have turned a blind eye to your disrespect that borders on treason. But I cannot keep doing this. I cannot turn a blind eye to your destruction and the danger you pose to my people or to me as their ruler. I warned you what the punishment would be if you ever returned here."

Elsa felt her lips form a grim line as her mind returned to the last time she was in the city, the fear in the king's eyes when she attacked followed by both of them fleeing the roaring flames that consumed a greater portion of the old palace. She had only heard of his banishment only after she had woken from a drunken binge that erased much of journey to Whiterun, Ulfric's warning coming in the form of an assassin.

"You are forcing my hand, Elsa," Ulfric continued in a voice dripping with false sadness. "You are no longer a savior. You have put lives at risk with your drunken displays and show clear disregard for the decrees I have made to keep the people of Skyrim safe."

"Really? I'm the one putting lives at risk? I think my little fire incident is nothing compared to the lives that were risked when you decided you wanted to grab at power. No one asked for a war, but you gave that to Skyrim, along with all the death and destruction that came with it!"

Ulfric's face slipped a little, the dangerous glint in his eyes surfacing while the crowd gasped in shock. Yet he recovered quickly, taking on his diplomatic tone that at one timed had fooled her into thinking he was a good man. "The Imperials were destroying Skyrim and it's people. All here would have died at their hand if I did nothing. Those that sacrificed for the war hold the highest honor in my kingdom."

"Really? Because if I remember correctly, _my lord_, I sacrificed a fucking lot for _you_ and _your _cause and I am seeing no honors being laid at my feet. You should have had a parade to honor me being in town by what you say, not having some green boy pick me up like…well like the Imperials did outside of Helgen. Hell, I should at least be able to walk around in the fucking middle of no where for all that I have sacrificed for your _worthy_ cause."

"Others sacrificed just as much as you, if not more, and I have rewarded them, as I would have you. But you persist in trying my patience, Elsa. You continue to commit crimes against Skyrim and its people and I cannot allow that. No matter what your deeds were in the past. Your sacrifices don't outweigh your crimes."

"Really? Others sacrifice just as much as me, Ulfric? I wasn't aware of anyone else having the defiled heads of their mother, father, sister, brother, nieces, and nephews delivered to them in baskets. I don't recall anyone else having their neighbors and friends gathered into a temple and being burned to death merely for being affiliated with them. Please tell me who else lost what I did for _your fucking war_. _Anyone?_" she shouted, looking around the room. "Did what happened in to my family and to Bruma happen anywhere in Skyrim?"

Ulfric stared at her, his face grim. "No one else had your power, Elsa. You can't expect the Imperials to attack others in the same–"

"Wait!" she interrupted, ignoring the king's continued attempts to quiet her. "I'm such a drunk I barely remembered! The Imperial slaughter at Bruma is strangely similar to what happened in Solitude!" she gasped dramatically, turning towards the crowd as if she were the star of a play. "How could I forget about the children who were gathered in the dead of night and struck down like lambs in a slaughter? Or the screams of the innocent wives of soldiers and lords were put to a cruel and agonizing death just for living in a household that happened to be wearing the wrong color."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, I –"

"_No_, Ulfric! You know exactly what I'm talking about," she shouted. A hushed silence fell over the hall, the courtiers looking nervously from her to the High King as her accusations poured from her mouth. Ulfric, though, seemed unaware as he glared down at her, his hawk-like features narrowing as she continued. "Where is Elisif, Ulfric? Where are her Thanes and guards? Where are their families? Where are Siddgeir and Igmund? Or Idgrod Ravencrone and his household? Tell me, where is Balgruff ? What were his children's crimes when you had them slaughtered? Or the families of guards who were doing nothing more than following an oath they swore?

"They fled to Cyrodiil, everyone knows that."

"No, they didn't! I watched them writhe on the floor as your poison set in. And you wanted the same thing for me. You turned on me so quickly, Ulfric. I gave you a fucking crown and saved this thankless world from the dragons, but you were afraid, weren't you? You were afraid of my power and later you were afraid of what I might say and who might believe me. Killing me here today would be nothing more than finishing the slaughter you ordered that night in Solitude."

"No, Elsa," he boomed, standing with his fists clenched. "I have nothing to fear from you or anything you could say! And it pains me to see your mind so far gone. Shouting nonsense like a madman in my hall, I had hoped to see you better. I was lenient with you before, only banishing you after you drank yourself to oblivion and then used the sacred power of Talos to nearly destroy my city. I didn't punish you as I would have anyone else for the same crime because of what you did for us. But this, this…tantrum just proves that my hopes for you were for nothing. Your mind is poisoned by your weakness. You are a danger to everyone in Skyrim and I cannot, as High King, allow you to destroy the good that has finally come to our people. I cannot risk that you'll use your power again and harm an innocent life."

"I only shouted after you tried to kill me! I was only in Windhelm that night because you drug me here in shackles after I destroyed Alduin. Do you really have all of these people fooled?"

"What are you talking about? You're drunk right now, aren't you?" he said with a wave before turning to a few of his frowning thanes. "This is the raving of a drunken lunatic!"

A few people laughed and nodded, some even going so far to say that they could smell the drink coming from her. Elsa felt the fury building in her as they started to mock her, claiming that she was mad or drunk, or any number of foul things the people of Skyrim had taken to saying about her. These were people that owed their lives and fortunes to what she had done, yet they looked at her as if she were nothing more than an annoying fly, pestering them during an afternoon tea. Pushing her chin out, she glared at those around her before turning back to the satisfied smile Ulfric wore. "I am _not _drunk!"

The crowd laughed harder, the High King leading the cacophony with his deep rumble. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest as a heat rose to her throat as it had in the years of the Dragon Crisis. She felt her nails bite into the skin of her hands as the continued to laugh and mock her, their jeers cutting into her as deeply as any sword. Deep within her she felt the stirrings of the power she had been denying for years. It burnt her lungs and tore at her gut to escape, just as it had after she had given the final piece of herself to the greedy bitch that was Skyrim. These were the people that caused her family to be murdered. Their king was the man that had caused her to lose her faith in humanity. She had bled for them, killed for them, and allowed pieces of her life to slowly die for them. She hated them, each and every one.

"I'm not drunk," she called out again, her voice hard and cold. Still they didn't listen. Closing her eyes, she let her rage fill her as the ancient words she had barely used since Alduin moved to her lips. "_Faas Ru Maar!"_

The affect was immediate. The laughing stopped and the crowd paled as fear began to fill them. A woman began to cry, followed by another, and another as the rest moved towards the walls, cowering as they saw her for who she truly was.

Moving towards Ulfric who sat frozen to his throne she dropped her voice low, the large hall echoing her words so that all could hear. "I followed you. You promised me I could avenge my family after what the Imperials did to Bruma, but I only found death and suffering. You have taken just as much from me as the Empire has and I will not forget it, Ulfric Stormcloak_._"

"Elsa, I –" he started, but she cut him off with a frown.

"You claim you want me sober, Ulfric. Well here I am!" she shouted, thumping her chest. "I'm sober. How do you like this Elsa? Is she less offensive than the disgraced debtor and drunk? Is she more pleasing than the child you manipulated to win a war? _Do you like what you see, High King? Do you like what you have created?_"

The king remained silent as Elsa felt the heat drain from her, leaving in its place a cold fury that was so different than the rage she had felt during her drunkenness. Dropping her voice, she stared at the man she had once sworn allegiance to with nothing but hatred. "The things I know, Ulfric, about you and the war would be enough to start another. Do not test me and do not _ever_ send your guards for me again. If you do, so help me, I will bring the fury of the dragons to your city so it can burn like mine did. I will kill every soul I sacrificed my life to save and my vengeance on you will be worse than any nightmare that has ever plagued your sleep. Now _you_ have been warned."

Silence fell over the hall as she turned her back and walked away from a man she had once respected and gladly followed. Yet he had shown his true colors, just as the rest of Skyrim did once she was all used up and could no longer be manipulated. He was a fool to not trying harder to kill her over the last few years, but then again she always knew he wasn't one for getting his hands dirty. That is what made him a true son of Skyrim. He, like the rest, would let another fight their fights only to hate their hero when the smoke had cleared and they had used all that they could.

_No more,_ she thought, her nails biting into the skin of her hand. _I will never act the savior for these people again._


	15. The Bandit's Lair

AN: Hurray! Another chapter done. I hope that those that are still reading this haven't lost faith in me. I promise I won't abandon this though the gaps lately have been long. I received so many reviews from so many loyal readers that I feel incredibly lucky. A special thanks again to DualKatanas and then also to OneSanctus, theminimogut, indismero, Mia, and so many others that have read and reviewed multiple chapters. Then there are all of my guests. You guys rock and having a review pop up in my email definitely helps me want to write more often. So thank you despite the time it takes for me to post.

So this isn't much of a cliff hanger, but the last chapter really was a turning point in all of this. So with that being said I hope you enjoy and I hope to update faster :)

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 15<strong>

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><p>Vilkas felt like he was falling. The room of courtiers and guards morphed into a muffled mess of growls and rumbles, while somewhere the high-pitched laugh of the madman sang about voices and death. He could feel his body tremble as it fell into some dark, hellish hole that had somehow appeared in the palace, yellow eyes and sharp teeth howling in greeting as he grew closer and closer.<p>

He wanted to scream, to find his brother or even Elsa, but the world seemed to disappear as his nightmare continued. He could smell blood and hear the screams of his victims while the craving for flesh sent him into a blind panic. He wanted to run, to hide but his body seemed paralyzed with fear.

It was then, that the core of his fear he could hear Elsa's voice. A cold wave tore through his body as he listened to her speak to the High King, every word, every ounce of her fury making his heart pound harder and harder against his chest.

_What is this?_ He managed to think before he felt the creature contained within him stirring. He wanted to turn, to break his oath and become the monster that he swore he would deny. Somehow the thought of becoming the wolf was comforting as his weak human body trembled on the cold stone floor.

_You must fight this,_ he screamed at himself, the blood in him growing hot and instincts drowning out the maniacal laughter and strange falling sensation. He felt his muscles begin to twitch and burn, like they did before turning. It was as if instinct and fear was drawing the wolf out of him, heightening his senses while screaming at him to run. It was that feral adrenaline that finally cut through the confusing, dark fog that had consumed him and began to free him from the voices and echoes of past that had frozen him.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a deep breath before opening them, the palace reappearing from the swirling dark. The laughter and growls eased away like a cry on the wind just as Elsa finished speaking, her voice quiet and deadly. Struggling, he began to pull himself up on shaky limbs as she strode past him and his brother without a second glance to their trembling forms.

"We have to move," he choked out to Farkas as he took in the strained look of the High King, his eyes wide with fear and fury. Shuffling to his brother, he helped lift him from the floor, his eyes watching the frozen guards for signs of them regaining their senses. "Move, Farkas. We have to leave. Now!"

Farkas grunted in response, his body shaking as they pushed themselves from the room. _Is this the power she has always had?_ he wondered as he stumbled down the large stone steps that marked the entrance to Ulfrics grand palace. His legs still felt like they wanted to crumble beneath him while his heart pounded against his chest, but whether it was from whatever Elsa had just done or from the fear of what would come once the King became free of his own mental prison, he wasn't sure. All he knew is that for the first time Elsa and what she could do frightened him, making him wonder just for the briefest of moments if the tales about her could really be true.

Slowly as they moved out into the cold air of the city their steps gained speed and the strength that had been drained from them in the palace hall. It was like a splash of icy water after a long night of celebration, each lungful of the delicious, brisk air rooting him back to reality. The hole that was filled with yellow eyes and a maniac's laughter was nothing more than a distant nightmare. And like so many nightmares of his past, their importance to his memory faded as action and present problems consumed his mind.

"There's Elsa," Farkas called out, his large hand pointing towards the stables just beyond the city walls. He watched as she said something to the stable master, her hands making jerky motions and pointing up towards the palace. As they moved towards her he watched in disbelief as the man brought a horse to her without her even sparing a glance to see if they were coming. He felt a wave of disgust and anger fill him at the thought of the wretched woman caring so little for those that took her in. She was the reason they were even in Windhelm and yet she didn't even bother to help them flee the palace from enemies she had created.

Rushing forward, they reached the gate just as she started to move from the stables, reigns in hand. "Good, you're here," she said without so much as an explanation or apology. Instead, she motioned to the stable master who led over two additional horses without a word. "We should go."

Vilkas wanted to say something, to scream at the woman and demand answers for the danger she just put them in when a large booming noise came from somewhere deep in the city. Biting back his anger, he quickly mounted and followed the troublesome woman's gallop across the bridge and into the wilderness.

"We should stay off the roads," Farkas called, his weight making his horse grunt with each pounding step.

Vilkas sounded his agreement as they moved from the main road and pushed their way through the untamed hills that dotted Skyrims wild and harsh landscape. They moved west towards the Pale, slipping out of the High Kings hold to the foothills that surrounded the mountains just north of White River.

He was glad for the speed of their mounts and their stamina as they pushed through the day, letting the mountains pass by until they were back on the edge of the Whiterun plains, just a days journey from Jorrvaskr. Only then did they finally slow and dismount to give their horses a much-needed break. They had covered more ground than he had even hoped for, giving them a much-needed head start if Ulfric had the mind to chase them.

_And why wouldn't he? _he thought darkly as his brother suggested they make for one of the caves the Circle often used when they were going to hunt. It was in a secluded wooded area only an hour from where they were, giving them a dry place to hide while their horses recovered from their strenuous journey. Elsa said nothing, but followed the hulking Nord with the ease of someone on an afternoon stroll. It infuriated him that the woman responsible for their current situation acted as if nothing was wrong.

"What was that back there?"

Elsa looked at him, her serene face turning hard and angry. "Nothing."

"That was definitely not nothing," Farkas said, his feet picking up speed as they started across the open wilderness. Vilkas could read in his look the same fears that were twisting around in his gut, making his abdomen clench uneasily. Elsa had insulted the High King. She had accused him of murdering innocents during the war, threatened him, and then threaten to destroy his town. It would not lead to good things, of that much Vilkas was sure. In fact, what she had said that morning was probably worse all of the things she did during her drunken rages. Destroying property, starting fires and fights, flinging out insults, and even owing thousands to lenders, traders, and the Jarls themselves was nothing compared to what she just did.

"You have put the Companions in a dangerous position."

"Enough with your damn Companions!" she shouted suddenly, stopping so that she could face him. "That's all you talk about. The Companions this, the Companions that. I'm sick of it! There's more to the world than your fucking Companions."

"What? Like ale? Or mead?" he spat back at her. "Maybe it's easy to not worry about the lives of others when all you care about is the drink, but _we_ are built of a stronger cloth than you. We actually stand for something."

"Oh yeah? And what is that? Because I don't remember you standing for anything during the war. In fact, I very distinctly remember all of you hiding away in your ship while the very troops the Empire sent to protect your city set fire to it when it was clear the Stormcloaks were going to win."

"We do not get involved in wars. They are not our battles."

"Fuck that. You live in this world, which means they become your battles. But then again, maybe you weren't ever strong enough for the Empire or the Stormcloaks to really care what you did. Being weak and obscure I suppose does have its advantages."

Her insult burned at Vilkas' ears, his feet stopping as he turned to glare at her. "Tread carefully, _Dragonborn_."

"Or what? You'll go scurry away in your ship for fear that you might get involved in something more meaningful than killing a few rodents? You're nothing but a bunch of weak, fearful sell-swords and you dare judge me?"

"You must be drunk to even think to say such a thing," he hissed, dropping the reigns of his horse and closing the space between them.

"Better a drunk than a coward," she spat back just as he flung his fist forward, catching her jaw.

She fell to the ground, her hand covering her head for protection until it was clear that he wasn't going to attack her again. Glaring up at him, she touched her lip, feeling the blood that was running from it. "Touch a nerve, did I?"

"Stop it, both of you," Farkas cut in, his voice taking up the commanding tone that he rarely employed. "We don't have time for this."

"You're right. This filth isn't worth a delay. We already have to clean up her mess."

Elsa gave an empty laugh, but said nothing as they continued forward again.

The next few hours were spent in tense silence. He felt his anger ebb and wane with the hours, his mind filled with what would happen to his home and the people he called family to the curses he wished he could fling at his mentor for bring this plague upon them. If it hadn't been for his insistence in keeping her they would never have been at odds with the ruler of Skyrim. He blamed Kodlak as much as he did Elsa for what happened, losing some of the respect he held for the old man.

_He has grown incompetent. His soft-heartedness will ruin us._ Deep inside him he felt a rumble of approval and the strong urge to make his thoughts known. The Companions had always been respected, but now because of Elsa and his obsession with finding a cure they were growing weak and becoming at odds with the very man that had the ability to destroy them if he desired it. It would mean the end of his home, the end of his family, and perhaps even the end of his life with a simple order from the king. He could now understand why Skjor had grown frustrated with their Harbinger and his talk of Kodlak stepping down so that he could focus on finding his peace. Perhaps it would be better for them all if he was gone.

_Stop it, _he ordered himself at the last thought. _You're angry. Don't wish things that can't be reversed._

Still the warning felt toothless as Elsa's uneven steps reminded him of just what sort of trouble the Companions had found themselves in. He gut turned as the sour taste of bile rose to his mouth as he thought about the damage she had done in a matter of minutes. It was all he could do to keep his hands from finding her sickly body as they reached the safety of the Circle's cave.

"Doesn't seem like anyone's been following," Farkas said as they led their horses into the entrance and left them with the meager food provided by the stable's saddlebags. "Might be that we've escaped."

"Unless he's headed straight for Whiterun," Vilkas answered darkly, his glare finding Elsa who seemed lost in her own thoughts.

"He might be merciful."

"Would you be merciful if you were in his position?"

"Can't say. Being a king is a lot different than being just a plain warrior."

"You're smarter than you act, Farkas. You know full well what any man would do in his position."

"Aye," his brother answered, "But sometimes it's worth hoping that things don't go the way of logic."

"Hope won't help us now. Let's just make camp and get some sleep. We'll need all of our energy if we're to fix this mess."

His brother grunted his agreement before leading the way deeper into the cave to where there was an ideal spot to light a fire and make their beds. Vilkas hated that they had to stop for the night, but better to lose some time and gain some strength then be caught in a state of fatigue by their enemies.

_Enemies, _he thought sourly. _We are now enemies with the High King_. There was nothing to stop Ulfric from sending his men straight to Jorrvaskr, demanding not only Elsa's head, but theirs. It may not matter that they made it back into Whiterun hold should the King decide that he was done with the Dragonborn and her antics.

"So what's the plan?" Farkas asked as if hearing his twin's thoughts. "Do we go home or find a safe house?"

"Go home," Elsa said, dropping down by the fire where she started to pick at her nails with a small knife. It was as if she didn't even care about the situation she had put them in.

_ She probably doesn't_, he thought bitterly. "What good is going home if they can just follow us there?"

"He won't follow you there. You're the Companions. You are respected. He cannot attack you outright. That's not how he works."

"And how does he work?"

"Cloak and daggers," she said, taking the knife and touching the tip into her skin as if testing the sharpness. "Maybe an assassin or two will show up, or maybe he'll wait for some other opportunity to get his revenge, but it won't be direct. Nothing he does is direct. Why do you think I'm still alive?"

"A war seems pretty direct to me."

"A war he started by walking up to the last High King and shouting at him. A war he waged from the wilderness with a ragged group of farmers with swords. A war that only became truly confrontational after the Emperor was murdered and I joined his side. There were no cities sacked until I was there. There were no Jarls overthrown or lands claimed until I was there. He waited until there was someone else to hide behind if things got bad."

Her words rang true, but he couldn't accept them. He may not support Ulfric or any of the past High Kings for that matter, but he seemed like a thoughtful, no-nonsense sort of king. "Your banishment was direct."

"It would be if that's what he wanted to do, but considering the goal was to kill a potential threat to his power, banishment is a very underhanded move. It makes him look all _noble_ while painting me as a villain. People don't care what happens to a drunk fuck-up, Vilkas. Destroy a reputation enough and soon they won't care if you're killed."

"He didn't destroy your reputation, you did."

"Maybe I did," she said slowly, turning the knife and staring at it with a strange intensity that made his stomach turn before she looked up at him emotionlessly. "But it doesn't matter. Ulfric Stormcloak is a patient man and will wait for however long he needs to so that everything is on his terms. My death, yours, the Companions, it can all wait until he has the upper hand, and believe me it might take some time if I'm any proof of that."

Vilkas stared at her, the dead look in her eyes making him feel as uncomfortable as the small knife she twirled in her hands. "Is what you said true?"

"What? That he used the guise of a truce and poisoned those that stood against him?"

"Yes, did he truly do that?"

Elsa stopped the knife, the point resting in her hand while she stared at it for a minute. "He gathered up Elsif, the other expelled Jarls, and their families and promised them no harm. He handed out cups of wine as a sign of good faith, giving it even to his own men and me. Everyone drank as a sign of peace between them and an end of the war. Then he just stood there and smiled as everyone screamed out in agony, their insides melting as they died."

"You didn't know that they were poisoned?"

"Only Ulfric and Galmor knew of his plan. They didn't even act upset as some of their own soldiers died."

"The cups he passed to his men were poisoned too?" Vilkas asked in disbelief.

"Yes."

"And you did nothing to help them?"

"Although the poison didn't kill me like it was suppose to, Vilkas, I wasn't able to do much at the time."

"Wait, what do you mean?"

"I mean I wasn't suppose to survive. I had helped him get his crown but I was too dangerous to keep around. Really, Vilkas, it's not that hard to understand. They claim the power of the Dragonborn comes directly from Akatosh, that Talos himself had the same blood that is in my veins. For a man fresh to the throne I was dangerous. I only survived because…" she trailed off, her eyes growing distant and sad. "I had been slowly building up immunities to poisons after an assassination attempt. It saved my life that day."

"If Ulfric truly wanted you dead why didn't he kill you when it was obvious the poison didn't work?" Vilkas asked skeptically. "Why leave the job unfinished?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"Like I said he doesn't like to do things in a direct way. He couldn't kill me outright at the time because the people would have rebelled. I was the only person able to stop their towns from being destroyed by a dragon. Killing the person that his kingdom viewed as a savior would not make his claim to the throne any easier, at least not if he did it publically, which he probably will now. It wouldn't be such a great thing to dirty his hands with my blood now that I'm…_this_," she finished motioning to her wasted body and dirty appearance.

Vilkas looked at her for a moment, seeing no sign of a joke or lie on her face despite the entire tale being somewhat absurd. It was a well-known fact that Ulfric spoke highly of the Dragonborn during the war and after. He had shown her mercy after she nearly burned his palace to the ground and the other holds followed his example. Never before had there been any sign of the High King wanting her dead, yet she claimed that it was his plan. "If he wanted you dead, why didn't he send out assassins?"

"He did, for a while," she said with a shrug. "But then I think he thought I wasn't much of a threat after the only place I was allowed was Whiterun. I think he was hoping I would be forced return to Cyrodiil where I would be executed as a traitor."

"That can't be true," he replied.

"Believe what you want," she said standing. "I don't care anymore. He'll come for my life eventually. Even if what I said is only talked about as drunken ravings by the gossipers, people will start to wonder if what I said is true. Ulfric does not like doubt, Vilkas."

It was Farkas who spoke next, his heavy features looking grim. "Lydia never said anything about this. She said that your banishments were due to your drinking."

"Lydia had no idea what was going on. She didn't travel with me that last year. She didn't fight in the war or stand by my side when I had the fucking _honor_ of presenting Ulfric with Solitude. She doesn't know a fucking thing about anything."

Farkas huffed at her words but said nothing further, leaving Elsa to find a corner and curl up in it as if she didn't have a care in the world. For all Vilkas knew she probably didn't. Her history of causing trouble had most likely taken the edge off of being at odds with those in power. But still, despite all that had happened and all the anger he felt towards her because of the situation they were in he found himself looking at the Dragonborn in a slightly different light. If what she said was true then there was more going on in the world than most realized. Then again, it likely could be some hallucination dreamed up by drink and whatever else Elsa corrupted her body with. It had the sound of something a skooma addict would say, but still there was something in the way she had talked about it that left him doubting his own sense.

Turning to his brother, Farkas just shrugged to the silent question that passed between them. Lying back, he stared at the cave's ceiling trying to find the answers to all of the unknowns that now laid before them. If what Elsa's take on Ulfric was accurate they would have nothing to worry about at least at the present, but a storm would someday come. If she was wrong, then their lives and the rest of the Companions could be forfeit by the High King's order. Either way they had to get back to Jorrvaskr as quickly as possible so that the Circle could meet and decide a course of action. He just hoped that it wouldn't be too late.

* * *

><p>The frost-covered trees and grass of Skyrim sparkled in the early morning light, but Lydia barely noticed it as she followed Phane and the team he had assembled northeast. Her thoughts were heavy as she took in all that had passed since meeting him the day before and agreeing to join him in his crusade against not only werewolves, but the other dark creatures that fed of men and mer alike.<p>

Staring at the graceful form of the group's founder and leader, she felt the uncomfortable tightening of her stomach as if warning her that something was not quite right. She wasn't sure why she had the feeling especially considering how genuine Phane had seemed in his explanation of what he hoped they would achieve. She saw no hint of falsehood or hidden agendas beneath his passionate appeal that they help him in creating a new guild that specialized in fighting the world's abominations, but still her instincts were telling her to be wary.

_Perhaps it's his use of the term army,_ she thought as the landscape slowly began to grow sparser in towering pines and the mountains flattened to hills. Armies, in her mind, were not as benign as a group of warriors joining together in a guild. Armies fought for kings and empires, bringing the horrors of war to uninvolved people while guilds were more like the Companions in that they were free to choose their battles and weren't tainted by changes in political sentiment.

She wanted nothing more to do with armies or war after the nightmares she watched play out during Skyrim's fight for independence. The famine of the smaller settlements as soldiers from both sides robbed their stores of food, diseased soldiers, frostbitten and gangrene, left to die at whatever town they were closest to, orphans shivering alone in the streets; all of it was so inhumane and incomprehensible to her, but still it didn't compare to what she had witnessed on the morning that had driven Elsa to finally swear herself to a flag. There were still nights she woke with the putrid sweet smell of decay in her nose and that image of fat white maggots covering a child's head in a writhing mass burning her eyes. She could hear her Thane's scream as she opened basket after basket that had been left outside Breezehome during the night, each one containing what was left of her family.

It was the Empire's desperate response to the Dragonborn refusing to pick a side; refusing to choose them after the chaos that followed the old Emperor's murder. News of the slaughter at Bruma only came after Elsa had formally joined herself to the Stormcloaks, the letter giving detailed accounts of all the people that were locked into the temple before the mages set it on fire. The claim had been that the Nords of the small northern town had harvested traitors to help aid the Skyrim rebels. The punishment for such treason was a violent death meant to be a message to all that they would not tolerate any form of help to the Stormcloaks, whether it be active aid or merely having a child or friend that was swooped up in the conflict.

Elsa had received their message with dead eyes, her expression grim as the last bit of youthful optimism visibly left the girl. Lydia had watched some little piece of her Thane break, turning her into a grim woman practically in an instant. Still, that change was preferable to the one that occurred after Ulfric's betrayal. She still didn't understand what had fully happened between the two, but it was clear that the High King wanted his former favorite dead by the number of assassins that had made their way to Breezehome over the course of the last ten years bearing his mark on their contracts. Thankfully the Brotherhood was weak in the northern providence and Elsa had sabotaged her own reputation, leaving her hated by the people and eventually ignored by the High King.

Still the whole experience was enough to make her distrust leaders she did not know on a personal level and shy away from anything that had the appearance of being a greater force than necessary. Phane's proposal was grandiose and would require a large number of swords to do all that he hoped to, but what was to stop him from setting his sights on something even higher? What was to keep him from lusting after power once his numbers grew greater than that of any one Jarl? And if there was anything she learned about men it was that they often spoke sweet words when it convenience them, but backed out from their promises just as easily as they made them.

Quickly her mind turned to Farkas and the sweet little futures he had painted for them only to push her aside as if she were nothing more than a bothersome fly. She felt heat build in her cheeks as her sadness and frustration grew into anger. She had abandoned her duty for him, leaving Elsa in the care of others just so she might have a chance with the one man that truly made her feel special. She had ignored her misgivings about leaving her Thane with the Companions and living a life that she barely dreamed of having because he had implied that his feelings for her were strong. Yet before they even had a chance to fully understand the relationship that was growing between them he ended it with bitter claims of ignoring his duties. He showed that her that she truly hadn't meant as much as he had claimed, making it yet another empty promise by a seemingly trustworthy man.

_Don't let yourself be fooled again,_ she ordered herself as their leader motioned for them to set up camp for the night. _Don't trust words without actions, _she finished just as Phane moved towards her, his large smile making his face light up.

"We made a good distance today. I would say one more day at the same pace and we should see the base I have set-up," he started, moving in closer to her so that she could smell the sweetness of nectar coming from his golden curls.

"And others will be waiting for us there?" she asked, searching for more clues of his motives despite the distraction of his hand moving to her arm and the way his honey-eyes locked onto hers. It was just like the night she had met him, the way his angular features and intense eyes had made her curious and uncomfortable all at once. It reminded her of the feeling she had the first feast she had attended as a young maiden rather than a child as the same self-conscious awareness of how close he was to her and the feeling of his smooth fingers against her arm made her think more about his nearness than what she needed to learn.

"Yes, the few that have already decided to join our cause will be waiting for us there. Like me, most of them are nothing more than farmers. That's why your experience will be so valuable when we train them to face the beasts."

"But I've never fought a werewolf."

"But you have not only handled a weapon before, but have been trained to act with discipline and thought. That is what we need to teach the men that wish to join our crusade. We don't want innocents being injured because the members of our guild weren't trained to act cautiously."

"I suppose."

"But enough of this talk for now," he said, leaning in closer so that his lips were closer to her ear, his warm breath tickling her cold skin. "We barely had time to speak as a full group before we left. It would be good for all of us to be better acquainted."

She nodded her agreement, quickly unrolling her pack and joining the others by the fire. The farmer, Mathies, gave her a small nod for a greeting before his eyes returned to watching the flames dance in the cold wind. He, like most Nords, was content in solitude and clearly had no concerns over his companions. Yet the man next to him seemed to sour when she sat down, his dark eyes taking her in as if trying to decide if she was worthy of their ranks.

"You must be the commander's son," she said in a guarded tone, forcing the man's eyes up to hers. "Andrian was it?"

"And you are the Dragonborn's guard, Lydia," he answered, his face pinching as if he had bit into a lemon. "My father said that the Emperor was intrigued that he might meet a living legend during his fateful goodwill trip to Skyrim. It was about the only positive thing he hoped to find in this godforsaken country, but as it would turn out meeting your mistress would have proved just as great of a mistake as leaving the safety of Cyrodiil was."

"The Dragonborn didn't kill your father or the Emperor," she answered, recalling the uproar caused by rumors of assassins and vengeance during the brief trip the Emperor made before the fighting had started in earnest. In truth, had the Emperor not been put to blade Lydia wondered if Ulfric would have ever gained the support he needed to win Skyrim. The Imperials had not been so cruel and unforgiving to the common folk until after their leader had been killed, their methods meant to act as a punishment to the providence for allowing the old man's death. It was a turning point in sentiments for many.

Andrian crossed his arms, a scowl covering his face. "The Emperor wouldn't have even been in Skyrim if it hadn't been for the rebels. They're as much to blame for his death and my family's as the Brotherhood. Your mistress included."

"Elsa hadn't aligned herself to anyone at that point. In fact she had just barely been in Skyrim for a few months when the Brotherhood killed the Emperor. You can't blame her for your family's fate."

"As I have said before," Phane cut in before Andrian could answer, "We are now all on the same team. Mathies lost a daughter to the wolves, Lydia her father, and you Andrian, lost yours to assassins that employed the dirty beasts. The problem of those abominations goes beyond any nationality or kingdom. Remember that as we are forced to make allies from all providences."

"And as I told you, Phane. I have no desire to be working with anyone associated with the traitors. They are just as much to blame," Andrian hissed, rising from where he sat. "That woman is no ally of mine."

"Sit down," the Breton commanded, his tone darkening from its normal smooth nature while his eyes turned into something dangerous. "Need I remind you that you were face down in the mud, drunk and rambling about wanting vengeance when I found you? That you were a pathetic mess barely even to hold a sword let alone sink your blade into the High King? I gave you an attainable source of vengeance. I gave you a reason to fight. And now you are going to throw it away because this woman followed her duty and oath into a war that she might not otherwise been involved in?"

The Imperial hesitated, his eyes falling down to the fire and back to Phane who was still glaring at him. "I –"

"No more words. I believed you weren't as pathetic as others told me you were. I believed you actually cared to make the world better while getting some sense of victory for your family. But perhaps you are just weak and not worth my time."

"I am _not_ weak, " the man growled, his hands forming fists.

"Then start acting like it," he snapped. "And start now by sitting down, _right now_."

Lydia watched the scene play out like a distant memory from when Elsa first started to drink. She could see in the man's stormy eyes that he was at the crossroads of making a choice between numbing his losses or finding some meaning to fight for. That, more than his mumbled apology to the group made her give him a genuine smile.

Phane continued to glare at the man for a few moments before turning is attention back to the group. His features once again took on the serene perfection of a sculpture, his eyes only growing more intriguing as the fire made their golden tones glow. "Clearly we have some rapport to build amongst ourselves. All three of you have experience of being in a guard or military so I suspect you understand how dangerous distrusting your fellows can be. If we are to face the monsters head on and kill them at their source I will need each and every one of you to work seamlessly as a unit. If you don't think you can do that I ask that you leave in the morning."

Mathies nodded, moving from the fire with the slow, heavy movements of a man carrying a large burden. "I don't care who anyone is that I work with so long as I can kill the bastards that killed my little girl. Imperial or Nord, so long as your blade works with mine to kill those beasts I will call you a friend."

"Well said," Phane answered as the farmer fell silent and moved towards his roll. "I hope that both of you can share his sentiments."

"I can," Lydia answered, giving the Imperial an encouraging look. "It is time to put the war behind us anyways."

Andrian snorted but said nothing as he moved to his roll, his sullen look mimicking Elsa's after Lydia had desperately tried to persuade her that her life would get better, that even though she had lost so much there was still happiness to be found in the world.

Phane watched him for a moment before standing and motioning for her to follow. Doing as he asked, they moved from earshot of the others, the cold night assaulting her senses after the comfort of the warm fire.

"Don't judge him too harshly," the Breton started, his eyes moving towards the Imperial with a look of concern. "He's feeling guilt over his lackluster performance as a soldier and poor representation of his family name. He wasn't good enough to join the same ranks as his brother and father and supposedly fled like a coward in Helgen when the dragon came."

"I can understand that," she answered him, crossing her arms as the wind pushed around them.

He smiled at her and moved closer, the welcomed body heat overcoming any sense of discomfort she had over his continued nearness. "If it comes down to only one of you staying I hope you understand that I want you more than him. You're strong and convicted whereas he's just looking for something to ease his sense of dishonor."

"Is it wise to fight with someone that isn't focused on the same goals?"

"He has the training we need if we're to ever get enough men to wipe out the curse at the source."

"I see," she answered, leaning closer as another gust of wind cut through their camp. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course, you always can," he answered with one of the smiles that drew her eyes to his full lips.

"Why are you so passionate about destroying the werewolves? Why are you doing all of this?"

"Like I said, they killed my family."

"Yes, I know, but I would like to know more. You obviously know about each of us, but I just know that you lived on a farm and are the sole survivor of the attack."

"Then you pretty much know all there is to tell. We were simple people with simple lives. We lived off the land and worked hard for everything we had. I lost my mother, my father, and my twin sister in a matter of minutes. I only survived because I happened to be closest to the house and my father told me to run."

"That had to be terrifying to actually see one of the monsters attacking your family."

"It was," he answered. "I will never get that image out of my mind. At least not until I know that I have done all that I can to keep others from experiencing what I endured."

"What did you do after?"

Phane looked at her, his eyes darkening as he answered her question. "I'm sure you know the reputation of my people. There are ways to survive if you're smart enough and have the necessary skills."

"I see," she answered as her mind played through talk of quest obsession, espionage, and assassinations. It was a society built on political strife and those that could aid someone in power would definitely find a way to survive. Looking at him more critically, she wondered what skill it was that he excelled in before returning to her questions. "And how did you come to Skyrim?"

The Breton leaned closer so that he was nearly touching her, the heat from his skin welcomed despite the odd turning of her stomach. "I used the past decade studying my enemies. I have learned their weaknesses and discovered where to strike. Borders mean nothing to the beasts, so if defeating them meant leaving home, I left."

"And you're sure about this source? That it's here in Skyrim?"

"Lydia," he said softly, his mesmerizing eyes meeting holding hers. She felt hand touch her shoulder before drifting down her back, sending a strange electrical tingling down her spine that both frightened and excited her. "Even though those abominations are in High Rock the attacks are almost unheard of. No one even believed my tale when I told them. Only in Skyrim are men with the blood of animals spoken of as a fearful reality. Only in Skyrim can you find not just one person touched by their monstrous ferocity, but many. There is a reason why your providence is plagued by their kind more than any other place and that is because there is a group of wolves that continue to make others. They spread their curse like a disease and we must wipe it out. Together. More than Andrian or Mathies, you and I will be able to bring an end to their kind permanently."

The tingling sensation increased with his emotion, making her lean against him without a thought of decorum. It was as if her mind had become numbed to her worries, leaving her body to listen to its desires of warmth and comfort without her head's prudent interference.

"I see a great future for us if we work together," he whispered, his warm breath sending chills down her spine. "But I need you to help me build it."

"I'll do what I can."

"Good. Now you should get some sleep, too. I'll take the first watch."

She nodded as he moved away from her, taking his warmth and the odd tingling with him. She felt like her mind was in a fog as she found her roll and slipped into its familiar warmth. What it was about Phane that affected her this way, she wasn't sure, but for the first time in nights she fell asleep without the heavy thoughts of Farkas burdening her dreams.

* * *

><p>Morning came fast, leaving Phane feeling the strain of a poor nights sleep. Thankfully, Andrian seemed to calm, giving him still three people to act as his generals in the army he was creating rather than just two. Still, he made a careful note to keep him and Lydia as far from each other as possible once they arrived at the base to prevent any future clashes that could delay the plans that were finally coming together.<p>

"We are going to ride with minimal breaks today," he called out. "I want to reach our destination before night."

The group nodded their agreement as they quickly broke down camp. He said little more as they started out, his mind heavy with the conversation he had with Lydia the night before. It wasn't often he thought of the years between the death of his family and starting his personal quest of vengeance and redemption of the Mastien name. It was a dark time for him, the reality of the world and his place in it awakening in him a darker nature he didn't know even existed. He had many firsts in those years, from his first time feeling hunger and true desperation, to watching the life seep out from a man because of the wounds he had created. He had used the looks that came from the more elven blood of his mother's line to learn secrets and gain the information that eventually led him to the path he now walked. One where he would not only destroy the beasts that had nearly destroyed his life, but getting revenge on those that had caused his family to be on that damn farm in the first place.

As they pushed on, riding hard and fast through the frozen landscape, he thought about each and every family that would fall by his command. He let memories of his childhood and the luxurious life that his family once had wash over him, filling him with a sense of entitlement that drove him to do more than just kill a group of filthy animals. He would become more than what his father had been, gaining the power befit the Mastien name. Through the Silver Hand he would have power that not even the Thalmor could claim.

_But only if you win Skyrim first,_ he thought sourly as the wind's cold bite grew stronger. He hated the place and the silent, brooding people that inhabited it, but it was the only providence that was largely unstable. The civil war had left many scars that were far from healing, allowing him to gain a position of power and importance that was otherwise occupied by other groups in the rest of Tamriel. The Thalmor had no real claim in Skyrim, nor did many of the religious factions or some of the standard guilds that the rest of the civilized world employed. Only in Skyrim could he create a name for himself and his Silver Hand, giving him a foothold when the time came to expand his influence into other areas. Of course, all of his plans rested on the success of ridding Skyrim of the werewolves., leaving much yet to be done.

It was near nightfall when they finally arrived to the craggy path that led to a large, intricate cave that he had claimed as his base. Deep within already there waited nearly seventy men who swore to serve him and the Hand. They were mostly bandits seeking a warm place in the winter and the promise of violence and gold, but a few had followed him from Cyrodiil and High Rock. It was those few that he valued the most, along with the three newest members of the Hand. They were the trainers and leaders that would turn the group into something more than a bunch of ragged fanatics and mercenaries.

"Welcome to your new home," he said, waving to a makeshift stable and a boarded up cave entrance. It led into an old ruin that allowed for ample storage and living space for as many men as he could gather. "I know it's not much, but at least here we can work in secrecy."

"Why do we need that?" Andrian asked, dismounting. "I thought we were just going to get some more men and be off to kill this source you keep going on about."

"It will take a little time to be organized and we can't risk the beasts learning about our plans before we're ready. There are a few we have recruited that have fought their kind before and from what they say these beasts are more difficult to kill than the wild, feral ones."

"How much time?" Mathies asked.

"As much as we need so I can assure that we won't lose most of our men fighting them. Now, if you'll save the questions until later let me show you our home."

The group fell silent as he ushered them through the entrance into a well-lit, warm dry hall that was lined with supplies and weapons. It wasn't much in terms of luxuries but it had all they needed and then some. Though it was too early to show them the rooms they used for questioning, he happily brought them to the main hall that was lined with wooden tables heavy with food. A few of the original members of the Silver Hand sat at one, their dirty faces and mismatched armor making them look like nothing more than common thieves and bandits.

"You're back," one of the more distasteful of the group called out. He went by the nickname of Skinner due to his success of killing one of the Companion wolves with his crew and skinning his carcass to use as a blanket. He was not the sort Phane enjoyed dealing with, but he found that he could safely let them do their work against the beasts without the monsters of Jorrvaskr becoming wise to the change in leadership until he was ready to unleash hell on them.

"We are," he called back, his nose wrinkling at the black smile the man gave, putting the sooty smudges around his eyes to shame.

"Are these those trainers you told us about?"

"They are," he answered waving his new members forwared. "Andrian, Mathies, and Lydia, this is Krev. He is something of a local legend when it comes to fighting the beasts."

The stringy-haired Nord rose form his seat, ale and pieces of meat dirtying his unkempt beard. "You brought us a woman?"

"No, I brought you a commander."

Krev sneered his greasy smile at Lydia, his pale eyes lingering on her chest, ignoring Phane's answer. "Bitches are only good for warming food and warming a bed. So which are you here for, woman?"

Before Lydia could move, Phane had pulled out his sword and slapped the man with the flat edge with a smart smack. "Just because you Nordic barbarians don't welcome a lady into your ranks without a large amount of struggle doesn't mean the Silver Hand is the same. A skilled warrior, man or woman, is welcomed and treated with respect. Don't you dare forget that," he finished in a dangerously soft voice, his sword's tip pressed lightly against Krev's hairy throat.

"As you say," the Skinner hissed, his eyes narrowing though he dared not move against his leader.

"Good," the Breton answered, pulling back his weapon. Turning to the group of tattered and savage looking men, his honey eyes held a spark of power that told all with sense to not cross him. "Hear this, all of you! Lydia is a fierce warrior and _will_ be a general for the Hand. If any of you have _any _problems with this, leave now. For after this if I hear but one comment that I consider to be insubordination towards her, or any of the other generals, I will claim your tongue. _Do I make myself clear?_"

The men grunted their understanding, though he could see their reluctance. He could only wonder if the women that were already in their ranks only were accepted due to their ugly, mannish qualities or if they were passed around and shared like Krev had often joked. _Probably the latter, _he thought with disgust. _Nords are heathens._

Giving Krev on last look, he turned back to the three soldiers and motioned for them to follow. "As I said before, the men I have gathered are in need of significant training. Men like Krev, though experienced in tracking the beasts, are not the sort of men that others will feel comfortable hiring for jobs. I stress again that this is why I need you so that we can grow and fight other abominations in Tamriel."

"He seems like nothing more than a bandit," Andrian said with a small sniff. "You expect us to be able to train that?"

"Yes. I do."

"You're asking the impossible."

Phane felt his jaw tighten, but he said nothing. It would not benefit him to argue with the Imperial before he had him fully indoctrinated in what he wanted to do. The men he had gathered would eventually hinder him and his plans, but they were expendable. If things went as he hoped he would soon be replacing the bandits with men given to him by the Jarls. "We will use those we have. More will come eventually, but for now focus on the task at hand."

"Phane," a familiar voice called out as he moved down the hall. "You're back."

"Burn," he smiled waving the Nord forward. "I have found us three wonderful recruits."

"Aye, I see that."

Smiling at the unsure group he had gathered, he quickly made introductions all the while noting the emotions flitting behind their eyes. He would need to take time in the next few weeks to address each and every little doubt the three had, making them feel confident in what they were about to do. It was the first step in gaining their loyalty, which is what he would eventually need once his plans were set in motion.

"Now all of you must be tired. Continue ahead and you'll see rooms that are empty. You can take which ever you choose."

"Wait, I have some questions about all this," Lydia said.

Leaning close to the woman, he let his magicka build in his hand so that it tingled with power. All it took was a light touch of her spine and immediately he could see that the little pulses of electricity were doing their job. Her body moved closer to his while her breathing quickened. It was a strange and intoxicating feeling he was told, one that many women found heightened all other pleasurable sensations. "I must speak with Burn about the state of our stores. It is boring work, especially after a long journey. Why don't you rest and we can talk later?"

"Alright," she answered in a breathy voice that was so unlike the brusque manner she had used at the inn. He smiled at her, letting it light up his face in the way he knew most women liked, catching her eyes before turning away.

"So," he started, moving towards his second as she moved towards the door with the others. "Give me the run down."

Burn began to list off how many cases of cheese and stores of meat the camp boasted, his voice soft as he strained to hear the new recruits footsteps fading. After a minute his voice became more direct and his tone curt. "Something has developed that might play into our favor. Something that could put you in with the High King."

"Really? And what is that?"

"It seems the Dragonborn violated her banishment and entered Windhelm."

"And is that suppose to mean something to me?"

Burn nodded, taking a long draft of ale. "She claimed he murdered women and children belonging to houses that didn't stand with him."

"Really? And is it true?"

The grizzly man shrugged. "People are calling it nothing more than a drunken tale, but that hasn't stopped it from spreading through most of Windhelm and who knows where else."

"I see," Phane answered, his long finger lightly tapping the edge of his glass. As a Breton he understood politics and the power of rumor when it came to who ruled and who was overthrown. He had lived it in his youth when his own lord-father had been ousted from his seat of power, leaving them to tend one of their farms as if they were no better than the poor commoners. And that had been on just a trifle of claims of corruption and embezzling. He could only imagine the sort of trouble that would come from a rumor regarding the deaths of dear, innocent children and their loving mothers during a push for power. It would breed distrust and crack the unquestioning loyalty this High King seemed to control. In the end if there was a challenge, the rebel leader could face losing his throne if not his life.

Taking a sip of the sweet summer nectar from his homeland, he looked back at his Nord companion. "Was there anything else that she said? Or anyone she was traveling with?"

"No. She was with a few of those Companions, though."

Phane smiled darkly as the path before him became clear. "Send the men I asked for ahead of me to Markarth in three days. Have them wait well outside of the city while Denel prepares things."

"Aye."

"And send Codell with them," he added as he thought of the little Bosmer that had joined with him during the time he had spent in Anvil. He had worked as a jester for the Count, his talent for weaving tales making him highly sought after by neighboring nobility.

"And what's his purpose?"

"I want him to enter the city with Denel and sing the woes of Peryite. Tell him to entertain the city with tales of tragedy and evil."

"Windhelm is a good two week ride from Markarth."

"Secunda can manage," he answered, draining his cup and standing. "Start training the three I just brought. Let them hear some stories from some of the men from Cyrodiil before talking about the Silver Hand. I want them to feel like they are one of the Divines come to save the world through our group by the time I come back."

Burn grunted, indicating that he understood. Grabbing his sword and a rich set of clothes, he quickly made for the makeshift stables and mounted his ride.

"You must be swift," he whispered to the horse, giving it a loving pat before spurring him in the direction of Windhelm. It would be nearly a days ride to the palace, but he hoped to make in half the time. The High King would not wait for a solution to his problem to present itself, leaving Phane with only a small window of opportunity to procure his greatest ally yet.

_WIndhelm then Markarth,_ he thought to himself, putting his hand to his breast pocket where the vial from Madena still sat. With the Nordic barbarians' king on his side, along with the tales that would be coming from Markarth no one would deny him what he wanted in the region. He would finally be closer to achieving his true purpose in the hellish northern providence.

"And after Skyrim, the rest of Tamriel."


	16. The Diary

**AN**: I had hoped to get this up months ago, but that obviously didn't happen. Mia78, , M, Yorkiesheep, and DragonsDeadAndDancing thank you for the reivews of the last one. There were a lot of other reviews for older chapters as well and I truly appreciate them. As always I love feedback even the critical type since it makes me work harder on writing something worth waiting for. So thank you all for your patience!

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 16<strong>

The grey stone of Windhelm stood out against the fresh blanket of snow that had fallen through the night. Phane hated snow almost as much as he hated the Nordic homeland, but after his hard ride on barely any sleep the capital of Skyrim was a welcomed sight. Even Secunda, who had greater endurance than any horse he had ever seen, seemed glad for food and a rest once they reached the city stables. He gave his ride an envious pat as he began the uphill march to the palace, ignoring the tempting signs for inns and alehouses.

"Later," he muttered to himself as he pushed forward, his hand running through his hair to make it more presentable. Normally he wouldn't dare meet a powerful ruler sleep-deprived and disheveled, but his objective could not wait for a bath or fine clothes. Fate had provided him an opportunity with the High King and he would leap on it even if it meant presenting himself in rumpled clothes and wild hair. He would just have to take comfort in the fact that most Nords still looked worse than he did.

Approaching the large, ornate doors that led to a recently built grand hall, he smoothed his coat and hair once more before letting his face slide into the look of authoritative confidence. He brushed past the guards without so much as a glance, pushing through to the cold stone entry that gave a full view to a massive raised throne.

"State your business," a gruff steward called out, approaching him with the air of a man who thought too highly of himself. Phane knew the type well. They often were the first people he met whenever his plans took him to a new palace or manor. He knew that pushing his own authority and demanding an audience with the king would led the man to only puff out his chest with false importance and turn him away. Even respectful humility worked poorly on such men, but he had not gotten as far as he had to be turned away by an insignificant peasant dressed up in fancy clothes.

Keeping his face neutral, he barely spared the man a glance. "I have come at the King's request to give him my report."

"What report is that? The King wasn't expecting anyone today."

"Circumstances have changed and things have grown urgent," he answered darkly. "The King will want to hear what I have say whether I am early or not."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"No, you won't. By the King's own order I am to report to him and him alone. Bring me to him or announce my arrival. I don't care which."

Phane could feel the man staring at him, but confident indifference generally was the key. Time and time again, he had presented similar options to similar men leading them all to buy the ruse and fetch their masters. Generally, the stewards confidence when presenting him to whatever lord or lady it happened to be would translate in the noble person thinking _they _had forgotten a meeting rather than viewing him as an intruder. Still, he had never dared approach a king in such a way and could only hope that Ulfric Stormcloak delegated enough work to others to make him at least grant him an audience.

"I'll go inform the High King."

"Thank you. Shall I wait here?"

"Yes," the man answered before rushing off. Phane smiled and took a seat near the palace doors. It felt good to sit on something other than a saddle, his tired muscles easing slightly at the reprieve. Shutting his eyes, he let the next few minutes pass by quietly uninterrupted before letting a shallow slumber claim him.

It was nearly an hour later before the steward returned, his quick footsteps waking Phane.

"The High King will see you in his study, follow me."

"Excellent," he answered, his mind becoming quickly alert and ready to whatever it took to gain the alliance of Skyrim's ruler. Fatigue would be no excuse to lose out on this opportunity.

They traveled up a few flights of stairs and along many wide passages until reaching a thick wooden door at the end of the hall. The steward motioned for Phane to wait before knocking and slipping in. It was again several minutes before the man reappeared and motioned for the Breton to enter. He did so happily, barely taking in the sound of the door shutting behind the annoying man as he took in the hawk-like stare of the king. Had Phane not had years of being subjected to the stares of lords suspecting him to have a more intimate relationship with their lady wives, or even the long, dark looks of a rival as he destroyed them in whatever fashion best suited his desires, he might have crumbled under Ulfric's gaze. But as it was the Breton doubted that there was any man or mer alive that could shake him of his resolve through something as little as an angry glance or dark look.

Meeting the usurper-king's eyes, Phane made a moderate bow but remained silent, letting the king make the first move.

"Sten informed me that you came to make a report. Something that I supposedly have requested. Tell me, what is it that you want?"

Phane let a small smile pull at his lips, one that made him look pleasant yet strong and confident. It was much like the smile someone with secret knowledge might wear in the face of speculation and rumor, which is what Phane hoped Ulfric would think.

"You remain silent on the matter?" the Nord said with an air of annoyance. "You dare not speak after brazenly lying to my steward in order to get an audience with me? I know my men, Breton, and I know who I have sent on missions and those I haven't. So I will ask one final time, what are you here for?"

"I'm here because of a rumor."

Ulfric growled, his eyes becoming dangerous slits. "You disturbed my dinner for that? I only entertained meeting with you since I thought you might have had some useful information for me."

"I do. I heard of the little threat Elsa Fire-Storm made when she was last here," he answered, smiling. "Something about innocent women and children being murdered, if I recall."

The Nord's face grew pale while his eyes sparked with anger. "You dare ask to meet with me and bring up such treasonous rumors? I could have you killed for mentioning such things."

"Now, now, I could really care less about rumors that may or may not be true, but what I do care about is this Elsa Fire-Storm and her current state of health."

"If I wanted her dead she would be. You have nothing to worry about if her welfare is your concern."

"Again, you misunderstand me. See, I think you and I both know that what she shouted about _was_ true. Happily most people despise her so they barely listened, but that does not change the fact that you have a very dangerous enemy that just so happens to be allied to a few enemies of my own."

The High King looked at him for a moment, his face growing stony before he answered slowly. "I would agree with you. _If_ what she said _was_ true she most certainly would be a dangerous enemy to have."

"It's not wise to keep loose ends, my lord," Phane smiled. "I am just the sort of man that can tie up any untidy bits that have been overlooked."

"Oh? And what would you need to do that sort of work?"

"Weapons," Phane said darkly. "Silver armor and weapons, and a promise that you and the Jarl of Whiterun will turn a blind eye when I eradicate some vermin that not only refused to aid you during the war, but have been housing your little problem for months now."

The High King's eyes darkened before a small smile found his lips. "Done."

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><p>For the first time in years Elsa felt the stirrings of clarity. Her mind was free from the fog of drink while the cold air of Skyrim cut through the hot anger and poisonous thoughts that constantly ran through her. It by no means reduced the pain and bitterness that had been brewing in her for a decade, instead it almost seemed to reignite long dead coals, breathing a dim glow of an old, angry fire.<p>

Vilkas and Farkas remained largely silent during the last part of their unexpected journey. She could read their anxiety, though she really couldn't find it in herself to care. In her drunkenness she could ignore the realities of the world around her, but without the cloudy dimness that came from ale she could no longer be blind to all that she tried to forget. Jorrvaskr was no home to her and the Companions were nothing but cowards that let their city burn during the war. Those were the facts. As were the bitter realities that her title and position cost the lives of her family, friends, and the man she loved. There was nowhere in Nirn that she could call home and there would be no peace in death. Those too were the cold hard truths she carried with her every day she woke and every night she spent in another nightmare-filled sleep.

As they moved closer and closer to Whiterun, she couldn't help but churn through her list of hurts that came from acting the savior for not only Skyrim, but all of Nirn. Alduin would not have been restricted by borders created by men and mer, yet his presence was largely ignored by the Empire and the Thalmor. They didn't view the dragons as a problem that would soon scorch their lands and kill their family and friends. But such was the shortsighted views of power-hungry leaders. They only saw their immediate goals rather than the larger picture. The dragons had been nothing more than a bit of chaos that made achieving their goals easier. The people didn't care about coups or invasions when death came from the skies. What did it matter who ruled and under what philosophy when your entire village could be destroyed in a matter of seconds?

But that was the way of the world. The powerful were consumed by their need of more, the poor by their pointless desire to live, and the opportunistic were driven by circumstances that could change fate. None of them truly cared about the person that fought for the masses, not the rich, powerful, poor, or greedy. They would simper and beg, praise and worship so long as their desires were being protected. Yet the minute that all was secure, the threat gone and the smoked cleared they no longer cared about the person or the sacrifices they made in order to allow them to covet their power and gold or their land and lives. What did they care that a town in Cyrodiil was destroyed? Or that a family was butchered and had their lifeless bodies desecrated? There was no one that lost sleep over the screams of innocents that came from supporting a tyrant, or the screams of a husband and lover who lost their unborn child. Not one person in Skyrim or the rest of Tamriel cared about the death of the man she loved or the loss she felt after destroying Alduin. Her sacrifices meant nothing now that the threat of death was gone.

Glancing up at the sky as they approached the thick gates of Whiterun, she could almost remember a time where she saw beauty and wonder mixed in the blues and greys of the clouds. But that was a different life and Elsa had been a different girl. That girl had died with her hopes, dreams, and chance at happiness and left nothing but an empty shell.

"We need to find Kodlak immediately," she heard Vilkas mutter to his twin as the looming shape of the worn warship grew larger with each step. "He and the Circle must know what happened."

"Aye," Farkas answered, his somber mood making his gruff voice sound dark and threatening. "What of Elsa?"

"The Dragonborn," he started, turning to her as they moved up the steps, "she will wait downstairs until a judgment is reached."

She could see the threat in his eyes that told her if she tried to run or do anything but wait the consequences would not be good. Yet again she could barely bring herself to care. If she had wanted to run from the consequences of her outburst she would have in the wilderness of Skyrim. She did not fear what the Companions thought of her or would do to her. There was nothing they could take from her that truly mattered anymore, nothing but the lingering desire for revenge.

Farkas nodded at his brother, motioning for her to follow them down the stairs and to wait at the far end of the hall from Kodlak's grand room. She did as she was instructed, her mind not truly focusing on the frantic pounding of the door or the rush of angry words that followed. All she focused on was the look on Ulfric's face. It was a mixture of anger and satisfaction followed by fear. It was enough to sate her sudden need for vengeance.

A door slammed, followed by the heavy stomping of Vilkas up the stairs. She watched him as he passed, his dark hair matted against his dirty face. His skin looked pale and drawn, but his pale eyes seemed to burn when they shot her way.

She felt a wave of goosebumps run through her at the look, her skin crawling with the emotions that were barely contained by his clenched jaw and balled fists. She understood the look as she herself had worn it before she found that ale could cloud her memories so long as she stayed drunk. It was something beyond anger or fear, more in the realms of loathing or hatred. It still lacked the darkness that came with the latter, but she knew that her inharmonious relationship with the smaller twin had taken a definite turn for the worse.

Still, she pushed the thought from her mind as his steps faded and Farkas emerged from Kodlak's room. He stared at the door leading to the stairs as if his gaze would be enough to bring Vilkas back. It made her wonder what was said between the three men that the twins wouldn't be leaving together.

"Farkas," came the old man's voice suddenly, breaking the tense spell of the room. Elsa sat up taller, straining a little to listen. "Has your brother gone?"

"Yes," the burly man rumbled slowly. "He's gathering Skjor and Aela it seems without your consent."

"As is his right, but tell me. Do you still feel bound to the oath you swore to Lydia?"

"Aye," the man answered, his tone become serious. "I am."

"Then I need you to take the Dragonborn immediately from here."

"I don't know, Kodlak," he answered cautiously. "Vilkas would view that as a betrayal."

"Oh, Farkas. I am putting you in a terrible position, I know, but if you don't take her from here I fear that she will be in great danger. I have no doubts that the High King will not let such claims, whether from a drunk woman or not, remain unpunished. It could mean her life should he decide her words were enough to be considered treason."

"I understand that, but shouldn't we wait until the Circle has made a decision?"

"If you wait you risk breaking your oath to Lydia."

There was a long silence before Farkas' coarse whisper answered. "Where should I take her?"

"Take her to see if those rumors about there being a Wuuthrad fragment at Dustman's Cairn are true. That should get you out of here for a few days without putting you at risk of being seen by Ulfric's men should they be watching the roads," the old man whispered quickly. "Go now and don't let the others see you."

"I'll do as you ask. Just try to keep my brother calm."

"I will do my best for both our sakes," the old man answered with a sigh. "But I fear it may be some time before the fire in him cools to see reason."

The larger twin nodded slowly before letting out a long sigh. "This isn't good."

"No, it's not. But often there are difficult times before peace is found. And I believe that we need the Dragonborn if we are to face even worse times ahead. So please, for my sake and Lydia's keep her safe."

Farkas nodded before moving to where she sat, his metallic eyes giving her a look almost as near an opposite from his brothers as possible. Instead of anger and repulsion, there was fear and pity. Elsa was sure that Lydia told the brute more than she should have about things her housecarl only half understood, but it didn't really matter anymore. It wasn't like she had to worry about the wrath of the High King anymore. She had secured that herself by opening old war wounds and proving to the usurper that he made a colossal mistake in assuming that she would live out her days as a complacent drunk.

"Let's go," the warrior said, motioning for her to follow him. "We can get supplies from a cache on our way to Dustman's Cairn."

"Fine," she answered, following behind him despite the soreness of her body.

He said nothing in return, his slumping shoulders and heavy sighs words enough to speak of his own exhaustion. Still, it was his own choice to sneak her away from the over-turned ship under the guise of an urgent quest so she didn't feel any empathy towards his continued sighs and tired yawns as they crept quietly out of the hall and through the almost silent streets of Whiterun. There was no sign of the missing Companions by the time they slipped through the gate and began to make their way west, easing some of tension in Farkas' heavy steps. He picked up his pace, leading them into the wilderness.

They had traveled for nearly an hour when Elsa began to feel the soreness in her feet and the burning in her muscles. She had not done as much physical activity in years as she had in the last few days. Adrenaline and pure emotions had kept her moving, but the further and further they traveled the more her mind and body felt like it had reached its limit. Still, no matter how much her muscles ached or her limbs felt like lead it was the mental fatigue that truly weighed her down. This was the longest she had gone without even a sip of alcohol, and though she had passed through the worse stages of sobriety weeks earlier this was the first time that she faced part of what had led her to the bottle to begin with. Seeing Ulfric had opened barely closed wounds and reignited the bitter anger that she had dimmed with constant drinking. For the first time in nearly a decade her mind was clear enough to focus on the memories of her family, the war, and, most importantly, Argis.

"I'm tired, Farkas."

"We can make camp as soon as we find a good spot."

She wanted to tell him that's not fully what she meant, but instead she only nodded. What could he know about the mind-numbing fatigue she felt day in and day out? How could he ever understand what it was like to just not care about anything anymore? The only things that kept her rooted to the world was her bitterness and anger over the cold reality that the gods abandoned them to a world that offered nothing but pain. There was no happy ending in this life or the next, no grand reward for those that suffered righteously or divine intervention for those that sacrificed everything for their fellow man. There was no peace in life or death, if there was she might have allowed herself to quietly slip away a long time ago. But as it was she knew the truth; Sovngarde was a lie. It was that simple and pure fact that made drinking so appealing. Under the hazy blanket of ale and mead she could ignore the stabbing loss that plagued her, drown out her feelings of guilt and sadness, and even ignore the truth that forced her to keep living day after day with nothing but pain and suffering.

No, Farkas could never understand any of that, just as Lydia couldn't or any of the friends she once had. They all still lived in a world that had purpose and meaning. To them, life was nothing but struggles that led to triumphs and rewards, whether in this realm or the next. They were blind to the truth and were all the happier for it, leaving them completely unable to ever understand the dread she felt each dawn she woke and the apprehension that filled her every night before she slept. There was just no way to explain how you could long for the end to come yet fear that it would find all at the same time, not without learning the truth about their wretched existence that they were cursed to live by the gods.

Sighing, she pushed her thoughts from her mind as followed the Companion until the last rays of the winter sun had long disappeared, leaving only a cold, starry sky to light up the freshly fallen snow. They had passed many good spots to make camp, but the massive Nord only seemed satisfied once he found a thick patch of brush that led into a small grove of trees and craggy rocks. The fire would largely be hidden by the tangled mess of branches created by the various snowberry plants and bramble, and the bits of flicker light that was visible would likely go unseen with how far off the road they were. All in all, it was the safest spot in the otherwise open plains of the hold.

"We can rest until dawn," he said as he set about clearing them a space and lighting a fire. "There's no rush to our quest."

She again nodded her reply, feeling that there was nothing to be said. She knew the true purpose of their quest despite his reverent talk about the weapon. Thankfully Farkas seemed more apt to fall into the typical Nord behavior of saying little unlike his brother. It seemed almost like a joke that the two were twins for how different they were in both appearance and mannerisms. It was at least a small comfort that Farkas was the one asked to babysit her, giving her some time to be alone with her poisonous thoughts.

Leaning back, she shut her eyes and focused on the way the fire warmed the skin closest to the point of hurting while leaving half of her body numb and cold. It was an odd mix of sensations, both painful in their own way much like life and death. No matter what she did, or which she chose, there could never be comfort or satisfaction. Either the living world would burn her up with its pointless and painful fire or she would be left with the prickling stabs of a cold and frozen death. There was no choice for her when the outcome was just a variation of the same unyielding pain.

"Why did you do it?" came Farkas' voice suddenly from over the cracking sounds of the fire.

"Do what?"

"Confront the High King, now, after so many years. Why do it?"

Opening her eyes, she looked across the sputtering flames, taking in Farkas as if she was truly seeing him for the first time. Even if his strong features on his large body tended to make him look dull she could see intelligence in his eyes. It was the same as his brother's though what caused the larger of the two to mask his thoughts with simple statements, she could never guess.

Turning her gaze back up to the barely visible sky, she let her mind turn to her childhood and watching the stars just outside of Bruma's large gate. There, in the shadow of the mountains that were said to protect the Emperor from all of his enemies, she and her sister would dream up great adventures that they would one day have and the lavish futures that came with them. Skyrim, though, not only crushed her dreams, but those of her sister, her brother, her parents, and her friends. It only was fair that she returned the favor.

Farkas continued to stare at her, waiting for some sort of answer until she felt compelled to say something. Avoiding his eyes, she watched the bare tree branches sway in the light breeze as if there was some greater meaning in the dead growth of winter. "You've never lost, Farkas, so nothing I say will make sense."

"I've lost," he answered bluntly. "My parents, the man that raised me, friends."

"But you still have your little Companions and your brother. You haven't lost everything."

"Neither have you. You have Lydia and you have us now."

She laughed, cold and hollow. "How can someone who's oath-bound to serve you be a friend? How can people who are ordered to care for you be family?"

"She stayed by your side this whole time. That counts for something."

"And then she abandoned me, which counts for even more."

The large Nord fell silent, his warm eyes turning a mixture of sadness and anger, but Elsa didn't care. It was the truth, no matter if it hurt or sounded selfish. Lydia wasn't a true friend to her. Sure they had been through a lot together, making them close in a way that only came from a dependence on each other for survival, but that didn't make them friends. Farkas would believe different, of course, but he was just as blind to the truth as Lydia was. There was no one she knew in the world now that could understand her or why she did what she did. The one person that might have was long dead at the hands of the Forsworn.

_And they have already paid for their crimes,_ she thought darkly as she clamped her eyes shut and let the names of their camps and the number she killed run through her head. It was a well-memorized lullaby that for the last ten years had comforted her the nights that ale had not sung her to sleep. It helped ease the guilt over being unable to destroy the rest of her enemies, knowing that at least she destroyed the one that had taken the last thing that kept her bound to this world.

_Ulfric is next,_ she thought bitterly as her mind went from Imperial savages and the man they had killed to the aftermath of that dark night in Solitude. Unconsciously, her hand drifted to the large scar that marred her side. The pain of the poison that the High King and slipped in her cup was nothing to the pain that followed. She would watch her old ally burn for his role in her misery.

After the High King, she would repay those who wronged her in kind. The Jarls would learn that their little holds were only intact because of her, and she could destroy them just as easily as save them. The Empire who had reacted to the war in Skyrim with an iron fist and cruel torture would see the fate of Bruma repeated with those that ordered the deaths of her family and friends. Lydia, who claimed friendship and loyalty, would someday be made to understand why drink was so tempting at the loss of someone important. Njada would be taught the lesson that losing a life, no matter how small or insignificant it seemed, could mean everything to those that found the dead creature significant. And the list continued on and on. Someday, one by one she would find her vengeance. If she was not allowed to find her peace in the oblivion of drink then she would find it through the blood and tears of those that wronged her. It was the only satisfaction she would get out the cruel world and ruined life.

Shutting her eyes, she let her dark thoughts soothe until sleep and her habitual nightmares claimed her.

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><p>The fury Vilkas felt could not be likened to anything he experienced in the past. There was a level of betrayal in Kodlak's actions that made his skin burn hot and his stomach tighten uncomfortably. The old man had no right to act without the consent of the Circle and his actions were anything but in the Companions best interest. What the Harbinger believed the dangerous and unpredictable waste of a woman could do for them that was worthy of risking their reputation and their lives was beyond him. And that was to say nothing of what Vignar would do once he learned that his brother's ward had threatened their sovereign. Vilkas could only imagine the trouble that would come of that.<p>

He felt his skin crawl as his anger grew. It was the first sign of his body preparing for the change, but he could hardly bring himself to care. He refused the blood by Kodlak's example. He had made a promise to his mentor, leader, and friend and kept it by his honor. He had wanted to make Kodlak proud, much like a son seeks the approval of a highly respected father. Yet now with the old man's betrayal he no longer felt the urge to struggle against the curse. What did it matter if he denied the blood now? They were no closer to a cure and Kodlak no longer deserved his respect.

He felt his teeth gnash into a snarl as he circled his room, his mind replaying Kodlak's soft words as he told the Circle that the Dragonborn had left with Farkas. And that only added to the betrayal. Had he just let the drunk leave that would have been somewhat forgivable, but that the Harbinger had used his twin of all people to serve some insane purpose made the sting all the deeper.

The last thought made his fingers curl, his dull nails elongating and biting into the rough flesh of his palm. He ignored the pain as a snarl escaped his throat, his arm lashing out towards his table sending volumes and paper flying. Deep within him he could hear the encouraging whisper of the internal demon that plagued his dreams and senses. He could feel the voice prodding him to give into his feelings, to let his anger be consumed by the primal beast that lurked just under skin.

_She will bring doom to you and those you love,_ the voice deep within him hissed, sending a wave of cold through his burning body. _You know she will. If not Ulfric, than acting as a distraction from our true enemies._

"Shut-up," he snarled, pressing his hands to his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He felt his heart pound wildly against his chest as fear over who and what the voice was mixed with the anger its words were only causing to grow.

_I speak the truth…_

"I said shut-up!"

The voice laughed, the low rumble sounding like it was coming from all directions before it disappeared into the silence of night. Vilkas kept his eyes shut for a moment longer, letting the quiet of his room fill his head, calming some of the rage he felt earlier.

_Am I going insane?_ His mind rebelliously asked he struggled with the apprehension and confusion that came with their present situation. The Companions were in danger, the Dragonborn had made it worse, and he was still hearing the phantom voice that caused his blood to grow hot and call all at once. It was enough to clear his head of his anger that created a haze over his mind and actions.

"What a mess," he muttered as he took in his room. Books and papers were strewn about the floor, a table was tipped on its side, and even his carefully sorted dishes of alchemy ingredients had found their way into the disorder. Sighing, he bent over to begin cleaning up the mess he had created when his eye fell on the small book Kodlak had given him earlier. Picking it up, he carefully turned it in his hands, taking in the scorched cover and loose binding. Flipping through the pages quickly it was obvious that Elsa had tried to destroy the book. Large sections had been ripped clean while others were nothing but flimsy pieces of black char that broke apart if moved too quickly. Still, there were parts that appeared largely untouched, giving him a quick glimpse at delicate, looping handwriting only broken by an occasional sketch or diagram.

Setting the book down he stared at the mess in front of him, his mind full of conflicting thoughts. Part of him wanted to finish what Elsa had started and destroy the book as a way to hurt Kodlak like he had hurt him. Yet curiosity was stronger in the Nord. His mentor had claimed that the battered diary would make him understand the Dragonborn and by doing that explain why she was valuable to the Companions. Vilkas desperately wanted to know what it was about the disgraceful woman that would make the most honorable man he knew betray his family. He needed an answer to soothe the wound that the old warrior had created and to make sense of what was happening to the guild that he called home.

Slowly, he turned his attention back to the book, his hand feeling the thick leather of the cover. It truly was a fine diary, the gilded design stamped into the leather only loosing some of its shine from the flames that had licked it. Also it had once been very thick by the looks of the size of the binding. It was a shame that anyone would rip out nearly half the pages and set the rest to fire when clearly the craftsman that made the volume had taken great care in its assembly.

"She destroys everything she touches," he muttered to himself with a sigh. She ruined her own life, Lydia's reputation, and now the Companions, so why would he expect her to treat her property any different? Besides, she clearly was unrefined and poorly educated by her manner of acting, he doubted that she had any respect for the written word beyond whatever meaningless prattle he was going to find inside.

Letting out another sigh, he turned the cover only to find the first page covered in sketches of plants and flowers along with a very embellished warning to all readers that the book was the private diary of Elsa Fire-Storm. It looked like something a young girl might write, the curving letters shaded and decorated with little stars and flowers. It was nearly the last thing he expected from the book, making him wonder just how old Elsa was when she started writing it. Moving on, he turned to the first entry and began reading.

_Middas, seventh day of Hearthfire, 4E 200_

_I hesitate on what to write on the first page of my new diary. Papa outdid himself, buying one with so many pages! Perhaps I won't completely fill you in less than a year, although I feel that with more pages at my disposal I may end up writing more than ever!_

_As I always do when I start a new volume, I must become acquainted with you, diary, and give you a name. I think I shall call you Rolf. It is a good name filled with strength, which I fear you will need in the coming months as my mother persists in finding me a husband. I am not yet even sixteen and she is crying out that I shall be an old maid that is a burden to my family. Is it not enough that my sister, Tilde, is married and expecting her third child? Or that my brother and his wife are planning for their fourth? Oh, Rolf, you are lucky that you are a book and not a Nord. How I envy that no one tries to make you something you're not…but on to happier thoughts, for now._

_This past year papa finally convinced mother that I should receive some formal training beyond what I have learned in Bruma. Of course he used alchemy as a front to his true purpose, but mama doesn't seem any wiser to his schemes. To her, I have reached the peak in the art of herbs and chemicals and the Mages Guild in Bruma has nothing left to teach me considering I have no aptitude for actual magic. She was more than happy to let me continue learning in the Imperial City, saying that a true lady is able to mix up little remedies for her husband and children, though I think she was more excited about the fact that I would be surrounded by the society my lady aunt would be sure to provide. _

_Still, rich young men and the mandatory social pressures aside, I was excited to go since papa made it clear he hoped I would take over our forge. He gave me the name of some smiths in the city to seek out and get some training. If my mother had known I doubt she would have let me go. She believes such skills are unladylike and that my father should have taught my brother, Enrich, the trade rather than me. To be honest, Rolf, Enrich is an idiot. He is lucky he has a nice face and papa had money, otherwise I doubt he would have had such a promising marriage with such a large dowry. _

_But look at me, I have gotten off subject once more! So, mother agreed to let me go to the Imperial City just after my fourteenth birthday. I stayed with her sister, my Aunt Ana, in the Elven District. I was forced to go to balls and all sorts of social events that my mother's noble name required. Why she ever married a smith is beyond me, but it seems rather hypocritical that she fled the life of wealth and near nobility to live in Bruma while she lectures me on securing a rich husband. But again, I'm getting off topic. _

_Thankfully, the nobles of the Imperial City took little notice in me, meaning I had very few daytime obligations or social calls to make. It allowed me to spend hours learning at the Mages Guild to further my little hobby for alchemy (which, I must say, is less of a magical art than it is a functional skill of reasoning). I also had the opportunity to learn the art of smelting. Oh, Rolf, I must simply tell you how much I enjoy smelting. It's like alchemy with metals. You must learn the properties of your materials and their make-up to correctly combine them with other metals, creating something completely new. When I finally returned home, papa was very excited to hear of all that I learned. He may even build a smelter so we aren't so reliant on buying our materials! Isn't that wonderful?_

_But now, Rolf, it is time for you to receive your first secret. It is something I did not tell papa, mother, or even my previous diary, Liddy. You are the first to know. When I was in the Imperial City, I learned far more than what I have already told you. I have to start by telling you that there is something called the Arena in the city, where warriors test their might against others in a battle to the death. I, of course, had heard of these fights from travelers passing through Bruma, but never thought much of it until I actually saw a fight. It was the most magical thing I have ever experienced. There was a sort of feral energy that oozed off the fighters as they faced each other. The sweeps of their swords and quick movements was almost like a dance. I must say, Rolf, I think I fell in love!_

_I went to many of the fights during my first month in the city before I had the courage to go below to what's called the Bloodworks. I'm still not sure what I thought would happen by going there, at the time I only had enough training in weapons and shields to know if the item I smithed was a good one. But as I approached the Blademaster I just knew that I wanted to learn the intricate dance of the warriors and begged him to allow me to train. Luckily, since the fights are to the death, the Blademaster was willing to let me participate (he said that he didn't have enough Pit Dogs to last the week). I was able to train with some of the more experienced warriors, gaining precious skills in the single-handed weapons. Still, with my first fight it was clear that I was, and still am not, a master. The Bosmer I fought was quick and vicious, but even at fourteen I had height and weight on him due to my being a Nord. If I didn't have that I doubt the battle would have gone my way. As it was, I came away with a few injuries, but I had the rush of my blade tasting blood that day and it was unlike anything I have ever felt before. Needless to say, I returned to the Arena often to train. I did not participate in the fights, though, as my aunt often liked to watch and it would be dreadful for her to see me putting my life at risk (that and I probably would not have won). But, still, I had awoken some dormant spirit within me that longs for another battle like that first. _

_Perhaps, someday, I will give you the full details of that fight. For now, Rolf, I must sleep. It is well past dark and mother says I have an important meeting tomorrow that I must look decent for. Some suitor, I suppose. If only papa would stand up to mother and stop this foolishness._

_Turdas, eight day of Hearthfire, 4E 200_

_He is horrible, Rolf! Absolutely horrible! I can't believe mother would even consider him as a match for me. He is lazy, stupid, fat, and nearly twice my age! What is she thinking? Does she really believe that I would consent to marrying Marcel? He's a Breton of all things! I am much too angry to write further, Rolf. Please forgive the roughness of my pen._

_Loredas, seventeenth day of Hearthfire, 4E 200_

_This is serious, Rolf. Mother has been meeting with Marcel nearly every day this past week. She has pulled me from the forge on multiple days and forced me to take tea with them and pretend that I'm interested in his wealth or his estate in Skingrad. Like I would like to live in a place like that! Even the Count of Skingrad is said to rarely leave his hall and visit the city, that's how bad of a place it is. But that is not the worse of it. _

_Marcel has already made it quiet clear that his future wife will not be working. She will be a proper lady, sitting all-day and left alone to paint or do needle work. As if I would ever be happy in such a life. I need activity and movement. All I want is the cool air on my back and a hot blaze to the front as I create weapons that someday will be the talk of Tamriel. That will not happen if I become the wife to Marcel the fat and lazy, as I like to call him (in private, of course, Rolf). Still, I fear that as my sixteenth birthday is quickly approaching I may be running out of time to find some other option._

_Tirdas, eight day of Sun's Dusk, 4E 200_

_Papa has agreed with mother. I am doomed. The wedding will be set in Second Seed. What am I to do, Rolf?_

_Loredas, nineteenth day of Sun's Dusk, 4E 200 _

_Tomorrow is the Warrior Festival, Rolf. It is my only chance. Papa will be busy at the forge and mother will be forced to work the shop. It is so chaotic due to the discount we offer for the festival that no one will miss me until I am long gone._

_I dare not write too much in here, in case it should be discovered before I leave, but I have made up my mind to flee. It will be hard to leave papa, but I must do what is necessary and leave Cyrodiil. I have spent the last week thinking of my options and Skyrim seems to be the safest. Not only will one more Nord not raise an eye, as it would in Morrowind or Hammerfell, but it is the closest providence to Bruma. Speed is necessary should I wish to avoid being found by the guards and brought back to this horrible place._

_I have made all the preparations necessary. The forge has been so busy that papa didn't even blink at the leather armor I made for myself. I'm sure he thought it was just another order that he didn't have time to fill. I even found enough steel to make a sword and a dagger, so I will be somewhat protected when I attempt to cross the mountains that separate me from my freedom. _

_Beyond the weapons and armor, I am taking some herbs I snuck from the mages early last week, some food I have been stashing away in my secret spot, and you, Rolf. They can keep Liddy and the other diaries I have filled, but you are still so new and have now two important secrets that I would not risk them finding you, and therefore, finding me. _

_Morndas, seventh day of Morning Star, 4E 201_

_Nearly two months since I have wrote in you, Rolf, and so much has happened. I shall try to tell you everything from our last chat, but I'm sure that with all the excitement I will miss some things._

_First, I will start with my escape from Bruma. It was easier than I even expected. The place was crazy with people trying to get weapons and what with the feasts and the mead, the guards were much to busy to ask questions of a lone girl leaving the city. I ran for as long as I could, slowing to a walk as the sky began to lighten. By that time I was already deep into the mountain path and had not been spotted by a single soul. Unfortunately, that is where my luck seems to have run out._

_I decided it would be wise to camp off the road during the day hours, just in case anyone thought to look for me here, rather than the Imperial City (I had alluded to going there in the note I left for my parents). Unfortunately, my little act of wisdom was my first mistake for though I found a nice cave to sleep in until it got dark, my few experiences in the wilderness did nothing to help me find my way back to the path. I wandered in the dark, getting even more lost so by the time it was morning I didn't even know where I was. It was impossible to move north due to the steepness of the cliffs, so I continued to travel east, hoping to find some way to cross over into Skyrim._

_I probably walked for nearly ten days before I found what appeared to be an old trail that moved over the mountain rather than along it. I must say that studying herbs and plants proved to be extremely useful since I foolishly only packed enough provisions to last four days. But again, I get off subject…back to my journey…I thought my luck had changed when I stumbled upon that overgrown path, but how wrong I was, Rolf._

_I won't get into all the details of the nearly two weeks it took me to get across those horrible mountains, but let me tell you that if I see another wolf I think I will scream! They are horrid creatures and are absolutely everywhere. It is unfortunate that their meat didn't taste better since I had plenty of it after not going a single day without having to dispatch of at least one. That being said, I managed to cross the mountains into Skyrim, which turned out to be the worst part of my journey yet!_

_Where do I even begin with that part of my tale? Should I start with my accidentally walking into a camp of rebels of some sort? Or how about with the Imperials that were lying in wait to capture said rebels appearing just as I stumbled into their camp? There is not much to say beyond I was terrified and confused and thankfully knocked unconscious almost as soon as the raid started. It wasn't until I awoke completely bound in a wagon with some the rebels and their leader, an Ulfric something or other, that I began to learn about the true nature of this providence. Skyrim is completely and utterly on the brink of chaos due to some civil war. I had no idea! Never had a word traveled to even Bruma, city of the Nords, about the strife occurring. I think that had I known I probably would have taken my chances with Morrorwind._

_So, Rolf, there I was, sitting in a wagon with a bunch of rebels and taken to a city called Helgen. This is where it seemed my luck really went sour. Not only did the leader of the Imperial forces stationed there not believe I had no role in this rebellion, they were determined to execute me! Think of it! To make things worse, I learned it was the first day of Morning Star…my sixteenth birthday. Needless to say, being shoved to the ground and my head forced on a chopping block is not my idea of a good birthday. _

_Yet, it seems the Divines were not ready to claim me for nothing short of their intervention could explain what occurred. I doubt that even you will believe me, Rolf, when I tell you that just as the executioner was about to swing his axe a dragon (yes, a dragon) appeared and began destroying the town! It was as tall as the guard tower that I fled into (that is where I found you, though the rest of my gear was gone) and its body was so wide that it destroyed houses whenever it landed in the street. It had scales the color of arid dirt, its wings almost a cream color. There was something enticing about the creature and the power it had as it blew both fire and frost. I almost felt as though I were drawn to its power, a desire filling me to meet the beast head on in battle. I don't even know how to describe it…it seems so foolish actually wanting to go meet a real live dragon in battle. Especially when you consider how my only experiences with the sword are limited to sparring with my father, a little training in the Imperial City, one arena fight against a tiny Bosmer, and a whole army of wolves. Not a very impressive record when considering a dragon as an opponent. _

_But still, that is how I felt and I probably would have acted on it too, had it not been for one of the other prisoners, a rebel by the name of Ralof. He grabbed me after I stared stupidly at the dragon, not even aware of the fire that nearly hit me. He finally broke through whatever spell held me and cut my bindings free and allowed me to take the armor and sword from one of his fallen comrades. A slightly disturbing thing, wearing the armor of a dead woman, but it was practical. Together, we fled the city through a sewer or underground cave thing and made our way to the nearby town of Riverwood. Ralof is actually from this town and has invited me to stay with him and his sister. It is from their home that I am writing to you now._

_I wish I had more time to tell you about the dragon. It was magnificently fierce, breathing fire and roaring so loud that my ears still ring. Part of me wishes to see a dragon again, despite it being terribly frightening. But if nothing else, it is definitely a tale I will tell my grandchildren some day. Alas, my candle is nearly out. Goodnight dear friend, until next time._

_Turdas, eighteenth day of Morning Star, 4E 201_

_The Blacksmith in Riverwood has allowed me to work for him a little bit. I am thankful since I would hate to not give Ralof and his family anything for letting me stay with them. The money isn't much, but it's something. I've already noticed that there is a different style to the armor and weapons crafted in Skyrim. If nothing else this will be useful if I'm ever to set up my own forge in these lands. Perhaps the growing conflict will be cause enough to give a greater demand for smiths and provide me with the ability to be self-sufficient. That is my main concern at the moment. It's the whole reason I left Bruma to begin with. I will not live on the charity of others or be forced to live by the whims of a man because he controls our septims. If I marry it will be for pure love not money, titles, or some comfortable situation that someone else has deemed proper for me. If I can survive crossing a mountain, being nearly beheaded, and a dragon attack I can't imagine why I would need a man to maintain and care for me._

_Fredas, nineteenth day of Morning Star 4E 201_

_Ralof is a funny sort of man. Today when we were walking he continually was bumping into me and finding reasons to hold my hand. Now I'm not so blind to not recognize an advance when I see one, but I do have to wonder what it is he sees in me. To be honest with you, my dear Rolf, I am no prized beauty. I am small-chested, large eyed, and have too much hair to even manage. Working a forge has given me the shoulders of a man and rough hands, while my height does little to aid me in being a pretty, petite woman. What would a young warrior with a strong body like his and that handsome face want with someone like me? _

_And here's the stranger part, even though I know I am not a beauty like my sister and lack the feminine curves that men seem to desire, I don't find myself wanting to respond to his advances. Even though he is all that I could wish for in a man, handsome, strong, tall, and a common soldier that would not expect a prize wife sitting uselessly at home, I don't find myself picturing a life with him, or children with him. _

_It is very curious. I shall have to be more careful so as to not mislead him in my intentions._

_Mondras, twenty-second day of Morning Star 4E 201_

_I've been asked to go to a place called Whiterun to speak to someone called a Jarl. I assume this is Skyrim's version of a Count. I wish the books I had read on Skyrim had more information that was actually accurate. Even in Bruma, the things I thought I knew about the Nordic homeland seem very incorrect. I had no idea that their political structure was different than that of Cyrodiil. I didn't even question that the Nords of Skyrim were loyal citizens of the Empire, but clearly that is not the case. I can only imagine that the mountains that separate Skyrim from Cyrodiil is the only reason we aren't more aware of what is happening and that the Imperial forces are so able to smother or change anything that we do hear. _

_I'm still in complete shock over the idea that there is a civil war going on and not a word of it ever reached Bruma! Sure, talk of Nord pride and stubbornness floated our way, but nothing more. Is that not strange? After talking more to Ralof I begin to wonder at the Empire's wish for such secrecy and their ability to achieve it…in fact, it is unsettling to think that information of this magnitude can so easily be hidden. _

_This is partially why I agreed to travel to Whiterun with the news about dragons. I am more than a little afraid that word may not travel and people might suffer a similar fate as Helgen. Ralof has explained many of the things happening in Skyrim under the rule of the Empire and the tyranny of the elves and I am beginning to find myself thinking more and more about his suggestion to join this Ulfric Stormcloak and his rebellion. Even if it's not for the religious reasons he employs, it makes sense that no government should be able to outlaw a god that has been worshipped for centuries! Love and the gods are the two things in the world that shouldn't be forced or controlled by any ruler…or parent, in my opinion…_

_The other reason I go is that Ralof made it clear he intended to seek my hand in marriage before returning to his post with Ulfric Stormcloak. He is a dear friend and has given me so much that I don't think I would have the heart to say no when he finally asked. Perhaps Whiterun will provide some opportunity to delay my return and cool his heart._

_Mondras, first day of Sun's Dawn 4E 201_

_Something has happened, Rolf. Something amazing and frightening and absolutely powerful that it is beyond my words to describe! I fought a dragon. I actually took up arms against a creature at least ten-times my size, with razor sharp teeth, massive wings, and scales so thick that it took hitting it a just the right angle to even pierce its flesh. But that's not the amazing thing (although, with my mediocre skills it is fairly impressive that I survived). The amazing thing is what happened after…or even slightly before its death. _

_How can I explain this? What words can actually describe this accurately? Would you believe me when I told you that the dragon spoke? That it was not some dull beast attacking blindly? And that when it moved to attack me his yellow eyes seemed to meet mine as if he recognized me? I felt like I had seen the beast before, as if he and I had danced the deadly dance of swords and flame in a distant memory or dream. I don't know where my courage came from as it swooped from the sky and tried to snatch away my life with its massive jaws, but there was an instinct in me that seemed to awaken as I lifted my sword and faced the monster head on. Time seemed to still and the world became silent but for our beating hearts during our fight. In the end I somehow triumphed, my sword striking the magnificent creature in his heart though I'm not sure how I managed to move so close to such a vital spot unscathed. _

_Its odd, as I write this I almost feel some sadness that I killed him. Murmulnir. That was his name, Rolf. How do I know this? Because he and I have joined somehow. After my sword stole his life, his eyes again met mine, his weakening voice calling out to something called Dragonborn before the skin and muscle melted from his bones. I can't be sure what exactly happened, but a rush of freezing and burning wind came up from his body and hit me in all directions, filling me with the sensation of ice and fire, creation and destruction, life and death. I saw glimpses of a world untouched by men, of the skies being filled with winged beasts. I could hear them speak in a strange tongue, yet the words were familiar and their meanings clear. All at once I felt as if I was meant to fly, to rule over the small creatures of this world with the strange power that came somewhere deep from within me. It was wonderful and frightening all at once._

_Of course after this odd moment I was pulled back to the reality of dead soldiers and the remains of an ancient and deadly foe. Those that survived looked at me with a sort of frightened awe, all of them demanding I see the Jarl immediately and tell him what happened. This, of course, frightened me since I am nothing more than young smith and yet I slain the dragon and, if what everyone says is true, have absorbed its soul. Even the Jarl agrees that this might be the case, and that the strange echoing voice that seemed to boom across the valley was a call from some old priest-like men that live on top of a mountain._

_All in all, Rolf, I'm too full of strange thoughts and questions and overwhelmed by the odd emotions I'm feeling to write more. Perhaps its best I sleep since I have been more or less ordered by the Jarl to see these men on the mountain so they can decide if I'm this Dragonborn person or not._

_Mondras, eighth day of Sun's Dawn 4E 201_

_I am currently in High Hrothgar, the home of the Greybeards. They have decided I'm this person of legend, the Dragonborn. I will admit that something strange has happened to me since meeting Murmulnir. My body doesn't seem like it is as it once was. My senses feel heightened, my strength greater, and even my thoughts hold a wisdom that was not once there. Its as if I'm no longer myself, but a hybrid of some old warrior and the sixteen year old girl that I use to be. But once more I can't find the words to really describe the changes I'm feeling. Even if I could I doubt that there would be anyone that could relate to them and truly understand the transformation that has happened. So I will return to a simple narration of events._

_ The Greybeards have taught me more of what they call words of power, or more simply put the language of dragons. It is a strange feeling to see something so foreign yet innately know what it means and actually feel the power and meaning behind the words. I have never thought of the power behind a word, but I suppose even in our modern tongue curses and declarations of love and hope have done wonders to move people. Yet this is even more than just that. These words have life even without a speaker. They call out and drum in my ears even before the old monks spoke them. Every glyph I saw hummed in my head and played at my tongue, begging to be spoken. But this does little justice to the experience, I'm afraid. It is beyond my ability to describe, again, so I will return to these Greybeards…_

_They have given me a task to test my abilities, but I decided to postpone my trip to some ruin for a while and take the opportunity to build up my skills more. They have a library here that I can study from and enough room in the yard to practice with the power in my voice and even with the sword. If I'm to be fighting dragons I really need to improve on what my father, the Arena, and now life experience has taught me (even if the monks do not take up arms and I will be forced to practice on my own)._

_Mondras, sixth day of last Seed 4E 201_

_I'm currently traveling with a woman named Lydia. She is a housecarl…which I have interpreted as a bodyguard or oath-sworn swordsman for those that have found favor with the Jarls. I have gained this favor after my completion of the Greybeards task (which included meeting a woman named Delphine that claims to be a Blade...like from the history books of the last era) and am now called a Thane. Of course there is much more to this tale then what I'm telling you, but alas a few months of training and travel has made me too weary to write much. I will say that I am not impressed with this Delphine woman who speaks of the dragons as monsters. I agree that they are dangerous and destructive, but what does she know of them? _

_ I'm sorry Rolf, I had to set you down for a few minutes before I came back to writing. Just thinking about that woman and what she was saying about my role in the world and what my blood meant just infuriates me. How could I be chosen by the gods? How could my blood give me any right to rule? Who cares if Tiber Septim supposedly had the same abilities as me? Who cares if his bloodline with their stupid amulet protected a dragonfire? Those days are long pass, as are the days of fear from Oblivion and the days of the Blades. Don't get me wrong, I will protect humans from any dragon that threatens to destroy a town or harm a city. But after what I experienced at High Hrothgar and, more importantly, upon taking the soul of Murmulnir I cannot understand a blind hatred of their kind. I don't know, there is just something in me that makes me wary of her words and what she briefly spoke of doing if that makes any sense. I don't dare even reread what I wrote since I know that much of this is coming from some deep-seeded passion that I can't even place. Perhaps I will tell you of Lydia, Whiterun, and our current journey some other night when I have a clear head and more energy than I do now._

_Turdas, eight day of Sun's Dusk 4E 201_

_It has been some time, my friend. I apologize for that. I am traveling far north to a place called Winter Hold. There have been reports of a dragon being sighted and as it seems my gods-given duty is to slay those that seek to destroy man and mer I am compelled to go. I would be lying if I didn't say that I am hesitant to seek out a dragon again. What if it is this Alduin? What if I'm not ready? Or worse, what if I am and I learn later that what I thought to be true was wrong and I just killed something ancient, powerful, and intelligent? Some of the dreams I have had since taking Murmulnir's soul make me really question killing the creatures…but then, of course, seeing a town destroyed like Helgen would be worse. So to Winter Hold we go._

_Tirdas, first day of Morning Star 4E 202_

_Today is my seventeenth birthday. I am happy to say I am free from the bonds of marriage, but I may prefer that to the role I have to play here. I realize it has been two months since I wrote you last, Rolf. In that time I have killed another two dragons, visited both Winter Hold and Morthal (the places I killed the dragons), and have gained enough renown that instead of having to ask for an audience with the Jarls I'm ushered in. I'm going to Riverwood tonight to see Ralof. I haven't really spoken to him since leaving for Whiterun nearly a year ago. I hope he can forgive me for that. Just as I can hope you forgive the briefness of this entry. We wake at dawn every morning and travel well past dusk, making me crave my bedroll as if it were some luxurious oasis found in the Emperor's palace. So on that note, I am off to sleep and you are off to your spot in my pack._

_Sundras, nineteenth day of Frostfall 4E 202_

_WHAT IN THE NAMES OF THE GODS IS ARE THESE MONSTEROUS MOUNTAIN LIONS? I nearly lost my leg if not for my now shredded armor. This Riften had better be worth the trouble. I'm hating that Delphine woman more and more._

_Tirdas, thirty-first day of Frostfall 4E 202_

_Riften is…interesting. I think I was either just asked to perform some sort of smuggling or become a prostitute. I'm not sure which. I'm thankful for my experiences in the Imperial City since the man that approached me not even ten minutes before writing this talked as smoothly as velvet on skin. But that is neither here nor there. I just realized I never told you about this Thane business and Lydia._

_ The title, I feel, is a bit undeserved. Sure I played a role in protecting Whiterun from Murmulnir but once more I stress that I'm nothing but a smith from Bruma, despite the reverence being the "Dragonborn" has given me. Still, I'm rather happy having some company as I've been instructed to seek out the other holds and warn them of the dragons' return. Or more specifically the threat that the dragon Alduin poses. He is supposedly the child of Akatosh himself, created to destroy the world before the start of a new one if the lore I have learned is true. All I know is that I have watched him raise a dragon from its tomb, breathing life into its bones with nothing but a few words. There was something terrifying about him. I hope that what the Greybeards say isn't true. That I am not meant to destroy him and save the world as we know it. If it is, I'm afraid that I will not be long for this world…_

_ Ah, but let us return to a lighter topic. Lydia, my housecarl. She is a very serious woman despite only being a handful of years older than me. For the first week we traveled together she little else than that her duty demanded she follow me and protect me. Thankfully that little encounter with the weird mountain lion monster-thing here has warmed her to me a little. I at least showed I'm not completely useless with a sword, though she treats me like I'm some sort of joke the Jarl is playing on her._

_ Still, I can't help but like her being here. She's good company when you get her talking and she is completely honest in whatever you ask her. Maybe someday we can be more than travel companions or a Thane and her housecarl. Maybe we could be friends. We will see, but for now I have to rest. Tomorrow I meet with Riften's Jarl and hopefully then we'll be heading north to Windhelm._

_Middas, second day of Evening Star 4E 203_

_It has been some time since I last wrote. Life has grown complicated. Between the civil war and dragon attacks I hardly have any time to think, let alone put any memories to paper. I have to date killed twelve dragons, countless wolves, bears, and saber cats, and innumerable men and mer. It seems that I am especially hated by many of the mer who see me as some sort of threat. I don't quite understand everything about this Thalmor group other than what I know from history and the Great War. I may have heard something about them in the Imperial City a few years back, but I can't quite remember. At fourteen seeing the world around you is a bit like staring at a specific point and ignoring the rest. Still, excuses of youth aside, I will say I have never been much into politics until I found myself at odds with the Empire, but I do know that Emperor Titus Mede II is disliked by many for the treaty he signed with the Thalmor and they are the reason Talos worship is no longer permitted. Again, all of this leading to the conflict Skyrim now finds itself in. So needless to say I plan to be cautious with these elves until I know more, which I'm sure will happen soon since I'm only a days journey from a city called Markarth where they are supposedly very active._

_Fredas, fourth day of Evening Star 4E 203_

_As if Skyrim couldn't get more complicated! What in the gods name are the Forsworn and why are they attacking innocent people in a city full of guards? I have been in Markarth for one day and already I regret coming. Perhaps when I make it to see the Jarl in the morning I will have answers._

_Tirdas, eighth day of Evening Star 4E 203_

_Markarth, Rolf, is probably the most complicated place I have been to yet in Skyrim. The Jarl is in the complicated position of his father once being allied to Ulfric Stormcloak, regaining the city from a group of Imperials calling themselves the Forsworn. From what I've heard at the inn, they were more or less slaughtered when the Nords reclaimed the city, which caused the Thalmor to put pressure on the Jarl to reject Talos worship and therefore the Stormcloaks using the guise of the treaty from the Great War. So it is just one big mess. And I mean a really fucked up mess, if you'll forgive my language. But seriously, I have barely been here a few days and already I have been asked to look into some conspiracy with these Forsworn. I have to say that as of now my heart goes out to them a little. Kicked out from their home, slaughtered, and left to scavenge in the wild…it's not the most humane way to act towards a conquered enemy. But then again, they obviously have no issues killing innocent people in the market. _

_Middas, fifteenth day of Morning Star 4E 204_

_Strike my last entry. I feel nothing but contempt for the Forsworn. I must say I have a very strange way of celebrating birthdays in this gods-forsaken providence. I completely missed turning nineteen by being imprisoned and forced to work like a slave. I don't want to even get into it, but the Forsworn definitely are not a group that deserves any empathy from anyone._

_Turdas, twenty-fifth day of Morning Star 4E 204_

_I have gained the title of Thane in Markarth after doing some very annoying and messy work. It is good, though, since Lydia is in need of a break after being bitten badly by a skeever and I can utilize my new housecarl for a few weeks while she recuperates from her sickness._

_Sundas, fourth day day of Sun's Dawn 4E 204_

_I'm sorry I have been so bad writing lately. With everything that is happening and all that's demanded of me I sometimes find it hard to even lift you from my pack let alone write. Today Argis learned what it means to be the Dragonborn's housecarl. I don't think he quite believed what Lydia told him, about how the dragons seem to find me wherever we go. It's not so much that they find me, but we find each other. The blood coursing through my veins burns and freezes all at once when one is near. I can hear the creature's heart beating in my ears even if we are leagues away. It's as if they are always there, calling to me, humming their strange language behind my thoughts, begging for me to find them, to heed the call of the blood…._

Vilkas stopped short, Elsa's words making something stir deep within him. Shutting the book, he shook his head roughly, trying the shake the odd turning in his stomach. _Heed the call of the blood,_ he thought over and over again. Voices calling out, strange impulses, blood burning hot, it all sounded so familiar. Too familiar, in fact. _Was this what Kodlak wanted me to know?_ He wondered. _That she is similar in being cursed?_

He felt a pit form in his stomach as he thought about the Dragonborn's words and her descriptions of taking in the essence of each dragon she killed. There was a change that happened in her that wasn't so unlike what occurred when taking the beast blood of Hercine. Instincts were heightened, senses honed, and a sort of primitive knowledge seemed to leak into every decision he made and action he took. From that alone he could understand the complicated and conflicting thoughts and emotions that came from being cursed. How many nights had he laid awake his mind telling him one thing while something else urged him to go in another direction? Was that not what happened with the Silver Hand lackeys he had killed? Or with the insane kidnapper?

_But that doesn't forgive her behavior,_ he thought as his mind replayed night upon night at the Bannered Mare where the Dragonborn in her drunkenness did something completely destructive, or what had happened in Windhelm.

Leaning back in his chair he rubbed his face roughly with his calloused hands. He had no answers for how to fix the problem Elsa created. He didn't know what to do and had no one that he could truly turn to now that Kodlak had betrayed him. _Just try to understand why the old man did it,_ he told himself, picking up the book again. It seemed the only logical course of action at the moment, leaving him to leaf through the pages to where he left off.

_It's as if they are always there, calling to me, humming their strange language behind my thoughts, begging for me to find them, to heed the call of the blood, it's always there and it always will be. And I know each and everyone of them as deeply as I know myself._

_Today it was Nahagliiv. That was his name. He died outside of Roikstead after the Dragon War. How do I know this? I can't really say, but I do. Just as I know all the thoughts and memories of each and every dragon I kill. It always starts as a whisper, a faint call with death as the soul enters my body, but over time I find my thoughts turning a direction I had never traveled. My words sometimes are anything but my own, yet they have always been mine just the same. It's as if the dead become a part of me, their spirit intertwining with my own until I no longer know where I end and they begin. My temper flairs with fire and ash, my fury is a storm of ice. I can call for death or seek out life through nothing more than a word that I have never learned yet have always known…_

_ The fire grows low and I'm afraid I became lost in thought. I will part you with my thoughts on my new housecarl. As you must already assume, he is very capable otherwise I wouldn't have released Lydia no matter how tired she is. I can't do what I need to alone. The burden is too heavy and the decisions are too great. I don't know this land and have no idea what to do when it comes to politics or war. I need perspective beyond the rhetoric of the Empire that I learned growing up and the passionate calls from the Stormcloaks. Beyond that, I need someone here for when fate finds me facing a creature that I have come to see as a brother of sorts. Each one I strike down adds a scar to my own soul that theirs could never fill. Even though I protect hundreds if not thousands by eliminating them, it feels wrong to kill the dragons. I know that doesn't make sense, believe me I do. Lydia thought I was mad and Argis just gave me an indulgent smile. But for as much as I depend on them and trust their judgment, this is something they will never understand. How can anyone if they have never taken up another creature's soul?_

Once more Vilkas stopped, the words ringing true to him and stirring the beast that was intertwined with his soul before he continued.

_But despite the fact that my housecarls won't ever truly understand my bond with the dragons I have to say that I am enjoying Argis' company. In the week or two that I have known him I already find myself opening up to him more than I have even with Lydia. I don't know why that is. Perhaps it's his smile. Or the way his good eye seems to light up when he talks about something he enjoys. More than likely it's just because he didn't act like I was a childish burden the first time he met me like Lydia did. It is nice to be taken seriously and not have comments about my age constantly override any of the deeds that I have done. I feel like when he looks at me he sees someone that is capable and independent and it is refreshing._

_Middas, seventh day of Sun's Dawn 4E 204_

_Rolf, I feel silly admitting this, but Argis is a very good looking man. Is that childish to write? Probably no less childish than keeping a diary when I'm suppose to be taking care of the dragons. But still, I can't help it. He's all muscle…and that tattoo! I have never seen anything like it. He hasn't really talked about it, but I assume it's to draw your attention away from his blind eye and the scars on his other cheek. Maybe it's just because he knows that it makes women stare at him. At least it makes me stare at him. Every little last muscular bit of him. Gods, maybe I should have stuck with Lydia. She was never distracting._

_Tirdas, twentieth day of Sun's Dawn 4E 204_

_The last week has been boring. Well almost boring. It's the first time in a while that I haven't had to travel somewhere due to reports of villages being burned or people being ripped apart by a dragon. I also haven't had anyone from any military seeking me out to join their side as some sort of weird status symbol. I know it's because of the link of the dragon's blood in Tiber Septim, but still, it's ridiculous that they would want me to join them. I have absolutely no military training. But as always I get off topic. I have not been bothered by anyone at all for a week, leaving me to enjoy the Reach…_

_ If I'm being honest, Rolf, by enjoying Reach I most definitely mean Argis. Gods, how I wish I had my sister with me right now so I could gush about this! No offense, but writing all of this down is not the same as telling a friend over a little bit of Cyrodiil's cheapest wine. But I will make due because I don't know if I can go another day without bursting. I don't know what's happening to me. I have never been this infatuated with a man before. It's the way he fights, to the way his armor fits, his scars, and that tattoo…all of it is just so…well it's just so! And the stories he tells. For only being thirty he has seen so much. He has traveled Skyrim and made a name for himself from nothing. He has a thirst for life that I can relate to and a love of adventure that I envy. There is no conceit or lies in his words, just his honest opinion of the way the world truly is. I could listen to him for hours. I find myself relishing every moment he's near me, taking advantage of all the little courtesies he shows me that I'm sure is just the result of his being a housecarl, something I have learned that he both loves and hates. I can understand that somewhat, especially after Lydia told me the position, though an honor, curses the warrior to be viewed and treated much like a servant would. Argis is definitely no servant, although he pays attention to me as if he were my personal butler. I won't complain. Having him lean over my shoulder to look at a map or help me put on my pack is enough to make me feel like I was just allowed to my first adult party in Bruma._

_Fredas, tenth day of First Seed 4E 204_

_Oh Rolf, news just reached me that the Emperor has been murdered. And in Skyrim no less. He was a good man, or at least that was the sentiment in Bruma and the Imperial City. With all of the turmoil here I can't imagine that the Empire will be keen to listen to any of the Stormcloak demands for freedom of worship and rule. I fear for what this will mean for Skyrim, especially with the war Ulfric is waging._

_ Argis is of the same mind. Being almost eleven years my senior I trust him when he says that assassinations rarely ever have the affect that people hope for. If it was a Stormcloak that ordered the Emperor's death they will most likely live to regret it. Their numbers aren't so great that they could truly match the fury of the Empire should they march on Skyrim. We are only a day from Windhelm, where a dragon has been sighted. Perhaps I will learn more of what happened when I meet with Ulfric._

_Morndas, thirteenth day of First Seed 4E 204_

_The dragon has left these parts, though Ulfric doesn't believe me. Although I do believe there probably was one flying around these parts at one point, it is very clear that Ulfric intends on keeping me here until I agree to fight for him. I'm not sure that my role as Dragonborn includes picking a side during a war. Oblivion take it, I don't know what being the Dragonborn means even when it comes to dragons, but he is persistent. He even kept Argis from attending one of the meetings he had with me. A meeting where he promised me titles, riches, and even at one point hinted at the fact that a king would be named in Skyrim and that a king always was in need of a queen. To be honest I think he was grasping at straws at that point to find something I wanted in return for fighting for him, since in the same breath he spoke of how torture of family and loved ones often made a man do things that they were otherwise reluctant to do. I doubt he was serious with the threat, but it has made me wary of trusting a man like this Ulfric. Just as I don't trust General Tullius after our brief and very vivid conversation that included what just might happen if I prove a traitor to the Empire. Let's just say that I am in no rush to aid either side with whatever little ability I have._

_Tirdas, fourth day of Rain's Hand 4E 204_

_Papa is dead. I haven't even sworn my allegiance to Ulfric Stormcloak and the Empire has already executed my family for treason. I couldn't bear to open the others after seeing what the basket that contained a gift from my father was. I don't want to even think about the horrors my dreams would be filled with if I opened the ones that were supposedly gifts from my nieces and nephews…they were so young. Barely old enough to be helping around the house. What did they do to deserve such short lives? It's my fault they're dead. It's all my fucking fault for running away from home. If I had just married that damn man my mother wanted me to they would still be alive and happy. I would still be able to see my father, but now I have nothing. I have no friends in this fucking country, only lords, enemies, dragons, and two warriors that insist their duty is to follow me to what is likely to be certain death. Just two more I can add to the list of people I will be guilty of killing. It is bad enough when I have to strike down some soldier who is ordered to kill me, let alone lead the closest thing I have to friends to their graves. _

_ But I have no friends. I have no family. I only have death and destruction._

_Loredas, eighth day of Rain's Hand 4E 204_

_My family has been laid to rest. It took all of my power to open each basket and identify each head. Even my aunt from the Imperial City was murdered. I don't know if I should weep or scream at the thought of how they probably defiled their bodies if the injuries to their heads were any indication. At least a piece of them was sent off to the next life in the fashion befitting a Nord. For that I can thank Markarth, Lydia, and Argis._

_Sundas, twenty-seventh day of Rain's Hand 4E 204_

_I have officially sworn my allegiance to Ulfric. May the Nine Divine hear my oath and the Daedric Princes give power to my curse. And by the gods, I hope the Empire is ready for me to seek vengeance for my family._

_Turdas, ninth day of Second Seed 4E 204_

_The air in Markarth has gotten quite icy. Although the Thalmor are guests, it is clear that they have great influence in the Jarls decisions. My allegiance to Ulfric has made them hostile whenever I meet them. They have mocked my family, sputtered curses about their deaths, and even allude to friends I left behind in Cyrodiil. I know that they are putting pressure on Jarl Igmund to arrest me. In fact, I suspect that it's only Argis' reputation and relationship with the Jarl that keeps me from being imprisoned on the spot. Needless to say, I'm leaving the city as soon as I have ample supplies again. I just hope that the war is settled before it reaches this city for Argis' sake._

_Morndas, thirteenth day of Second Seed 4E 204_

_Gods, why? Bruma was in the Empire! I can't bring myself to write more._

_Middas, fifteenth day of Second Seed 4E 204_

_It has been two days since the news of Bruma's burning reached me. I haven't cried. I don't think that I have any tears left in me to be honest. From the report it seems that Imperial guards ordered everyone to the church in the dead of night. There was suspicion of some Stormcloak followers and spies to be using the city as a base. I'm not quite sure what happened or on who's order it was, but the church was burned with everyone in it. All of my childhood friends, my mentors from the mage's guild, people that I have known my whole life. Everyone. Even children. Is this what war is? Just meaningless death upon death? If it is I doubt Nirn needs dragons to purge our cursed existence from its lands._

_Turdas, sixteenth day of Second Seed 4E 204_

_CURSE THE FUCKING THALMOR. I cannot be the reason Bruma burned. I cannot. I had no contact with anyone from home really since leaving. The Empire couldn't suspect that anyone was feeding me information on their numbers. I didn't even know that the Imperial troops had made camp outside of Bruma waiting for orders to march on Skyrim! It couldn't have been my fault._

_Loredas, eighteenth day of Second Seed 4E 204_

_Argis pointed out to me that my joining Ulfric might not have caused the burning of Bruma. The news came very quickly for it to be an act of retaliation or because they thought someone was my spy. I know that they are just words, but it does help. How am I to truly know if the attack on Bruma wasn't due to an insurgency or some other rebellion? Perhaps Ulfric did have a spy there. I might not have been me. News crossing the mountains has never been very reliable. Still, I have this feeling like what the Ondolemar said was true. And the more news that trickles in points to my name being shouted by the guards, demanding who knew me. I can't ignore that. In some way my involvement in this war has cost those people their lives._

_ If it is true and my swearing fealty to Ulfric has caused them to retaliate I will not be cowed into hiding. They have already killed those most important to me so what is there left for them to take? I will ride to war and avenge not only my family but Bruma. Argis has vowed to follow me where I ride, though I know deep down he has no desire to be part of the conflict. I have told him that he doesn't need to, that I can handle myself, but he is persistent that he won't leave my side. A month ago that would have made my heart melt. Today it makes me more concerned about the debt I will owe him as we seek to avenge the spilled Fire-Storm blood._

_Sundas, third day of Midyear 4E 204_

_It has been only a short time, but already I find myself oddly comforted. Argis has shared some of his life with me and there are some striking similarities that make it easier to carry the guilt this war has brought. I can't help but look forward to the evenings when the world is quiet and I can close my eyes and just listen to his stories. Though I do begin to find that I –_

He turned the page only to find drawing of a man filling it before a large gap in the binding marked where pages had been torn out. Moving to the next page it started midsentence with shaky writing.

_nightmares. I hear the screams and see their faces and those of my family. I wake up with the smell of rot and fire in my nose and cramping in my belly. Gods, when will this end? When will I sleep again? When will life be normal? I never asked for this. None of it. I never wanted power or money. I only wanted freedom to do what I loved and maybe someday find a man that I wanted, not one with a title or land. _

The entry ended, disappearing into the section of the diary that had seen the most damage from the fire. Leaning a little more into his lantern, he could just barely make out the next passage.

_Sundas, ninth day of Hearthfire 4E 204_

_Argis says I'm looking thin and pale. I can tell he's worried and wants to help me but he will never understand. How can he know what it's like to have so many lives sitting on your soul? Or what it's like to know that the moment you shut your eyes you'll see heads covered with maggots and children screaming? I can't even get through a fucking day without fury making my mouth taste like ash and fire fill my belly. And I can't ever forget everything we have lost. It is my fault. It is all my fault that we are hiding away in Markarth. It's because of me that we were at the Blue Palace that night and that we lost – _

The words became lost in the black, charred mess that was nearly half the book, leaving the next few delicate pages completely illegible. He carefully turned each one, searching for more of the Dragonborn's personal history until he finally reached a smudged page that looked as if it had started mid-entry only to be lost again in the soot. Squinting he read the little bit that he could.

_- I haven't slept in nearly six days. My mind is numb and my body sluggish, yet every time I try to close my eyes I can hear the screams. I can smell the rot and feel the life that was inside of me turning only to become still. Every sob hurts and burns. I can't save anyone. Not my family, not those poor children, not even - _

Once more black consumed the words, snatching way the volume's secrets without a hope of ever recovering them. Again, he slowly worked through page after page of burnt parchment until he finally reached a page where the ink from her pen still shone through the ash.

_Middas, twenty second day of Evening Star 4E 204_

_I know Markarth is the last hold that Ulfric doesn't control, but it is becoming clear very quickly that my welcome here is wearing thin. Argis has done much to make this a safe haven while I heal from that power-hungry bastard's betrayal, but it may not be enough. Argis will lose his home and his friends if Igmund isn't kept happy. And I think he gets no finer pleasure than seeing me limp around in pain doing everything from rounding up his dogs to marching up and down the endless fucking stairs with some stupid message to someone in the city. He gloats over his allegiance to the Empire. Not that the fucking empire is any better than the Stormcloaks. They are all nothing but murderers. I barely feel any shame anymore at hoping that they all get what's coming to them and soon._

_Tirdas, first day of Morning Star 4E 205_

_Today marks my fourth anniversary in coming to Skyrim and my twentieth birthday. Both are things that I wished had never happened._

_Fredas, tenth day of Rains Hand 4E 205_

_I've been fighting a lot with everyone lately, especially Argis. Igmund has threatened to make us leave for my involvement with Ulfric, and his threats are becoming more and more aggressive considering the force that murdering bastard has camped out not too far from here. He thinks I'm a spy. What a fucking joke. Seriously? Me, a spy? What sort of idiot would think I would ever want anything to do with the Stormcloaks after what they did to me? Argis says I should try to stay calm, to act reasonably and only after long consideration. It's like he doesn't even have my back anymore. I can see the frustration in his eyes, I can tell what he's thinking. He never wanted to join the Stormcloaks, but I forced his hand after reacting to what happened to my family. It was my stupid decision that put me in the Blue Palace with a cup of poison. It was my fault. All of it. And even though he has every right to blame me for what happened I am so fucking mad at him. I'm mad at this war and this stupid fucking world. All I ever did was use this stupid fucking power the gods gave me to try to help people. Instead my family is slaughtered, my hometown massacred, and my chance of ever having a family of my own taken from me._

He stared at the last few words, soaking in their anger and hatred. He could see the Elsa he knew in the last entry, with all of her venom. For as much as he could see some of the relationships that she had valued and lost, but he could not fully piece together what fully triggered the change in the optimistic girl to become the bitter woman. Losing her family had a role, as did the night she wrote about in the Blue Palace, but there was still something more.

Turning back to the volume, he wished that the large portions that had been torn from the spine were still there. He had some odd desire to understand what it was that led Elsa to be where she was today in its entirety. Not little snippets here or there, but every last detail. He longed to know what it was that made Kodlak put her safety above everyone else's.

Still, there was no getting back what was already lost. All he could do is see what the little bits that remained of her diary had to offer him. Bringing the book closer to the light, he squinted as he tried to make out the few little smudges of ink left on the small bits of paper that were still caught in its spine. Unfortunately, none were enough to make anything out. Giving up on the scraps, he finally flipped to the few pages that still remained somewhat intact near the end of the volume, only to find a list of locations marked with numbers. Looking closely, he slowly read through the names.

_Dead Crone Rock – 26_

_Deepwood Ruin – 8 _

_Kolskeggr Mine - 11_

_Blind Cliff Cave – 16_

_Bleakwind Bluff – 12_

_Red Eagle Ascent – 31_

_Red Eagle Camp – 9 _

_Kathspire – 22_

_Kathspire Camp – 3 _

_Bruca's Leap – 13_

_Deepwood Vale – 4_

_Hag's End – 19_

_Hag's Rock – 7 _

_Rebel's Cairn – 4 _

_Fort Sungard – 39_

_Cradle Stone Tower – 5_

_Dragon Bridge Area – 6 _

_Sundered Towers – 7_

_Broken Tower Redoubt – 3_

_Lost Valley – 57_

_Duadach Camp – 5 _

_Markarth – 43 _

Seeing nothing to link the names and the numbers, he quickly turned another blank page only to find more torn pages. Most, like the rest, had been yanked cleanly from the binding, only a few loose stitches and the bare leather of the spine marking that they had once been there. The only thing that remained was a small part of what appeared to be the last page of the journal. Leaning his face in closely he examined Elsa's tiny script and made out a few of the words.

_the ha_

_Why isn't he he_

_they were nowher_

_dead. I curse the day tha_

_gods. Fuck them and their Sov_

_took him from me. I have lost e_

_Why?_

He stared at the last page for what felt like hours, his mind spinning with what he had read, the questions it had created, and how that fit into the Companions and Kodlak's treacherous decision. There was obviously some tragedy to Elsa's story if her words were true, but that didn't mean much if Jorrvaskr was going to be made an enemy by order of the High King. Nor would it even help them in something far less complicated like the resurgence of the Silver Hand. Perhaps the words would have helped him connect with the waste of a woman a few weeks earlier, but now he couldn't see how he would ever be able to form a bond with someone so destructive. She had endangered his home and along with the people he considered family. It was unforgivable.

"She will face the consequences when she returns," he snarled to the empty room, tossing the diary aside. "The Circle will protect Jorrvaskr, tragic life or not."


End file.
